


Concordat

by Laota



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 52,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laota/pseuds/Laota
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean get sent to another dimension and see what the world be like if they died at Stull. Being deliberately mysterious, here, so deal with it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. TTFE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley looks to change his fate. He travels to Cumbria to consult a surprisingly bossy fairy named Garron.

CUMBRIA - MIDNIGHT

It was a stormy January night when an eerie light glowed in the windows of the Hatfield Inn, a little pub and hotel at the foot of the fells, just an hour outside Buttermere Village. In the bar on the ground floor, a few corpses sat hunched at tables, their pints left unfinished. Two black-eyed patrons with bloody knuckles were drinking and playing Double Dragon on the old arcade cabinet near the restrooms, the dim light from the screen casting long shadows around the room. At the back of the bar was an almost medieval looking iron gate, bolted to the wall. A man, barely conscious, was chained to it like it was a torture rack.

He was a tall, middle-aged brunet, pale and thickset. Kind of stuffy - he had the look of a university professor. He also had the look of someone who'd spent the last few hours falling down an ascending escalator. His face was bruised and cut, his tweed suit was bloodied and filthy. His wrists, where they were shackled, were badly burned. He tried not to hang his weight on them.

The bell over the entrance rang, despite the fact that the door never opened. One of the two demons pulled the plug on the game, and so the room went black. Someone struck a couple of matches. It was Crowley. His expression was tired and surly. His eyes were bloodshot and his overcoat was soaked through, like he'd been standing in the rain all night. He looked - pardon the expression - like hell.

"Get the lights up, you little truncheons," he said.

One of the henchmen - the Johnny-on-the-spot one who unplugged the game - sped across the room and flipped on the antler chandelier that hung overhead. Crowley took his coat off and threw it to Johnny, then turned to the other demon.

"Two fingers of whisky," Crowley said to him. He turned to the man on the rack. "And for yourself?"

The man lifted his head, glowering. "Better not," he said. "I'm driving." He spoke with Yorkshire accent, choking a bit on his own blood.

"Not out in  _that_ ," Crowley said. "Storm of the century's on the way, or so they tell me. No,... sit a spell." He went to the table nearest to the man, gently pushed one of the corpses off it's seat and took it's place. "I'm having a bastard of a night," he said. "And I hear you're the man who can make it better. That you're a fairy  _and_  a vate-. Is that the word? And what's the difference between a seer and a vate? No one will tell me."

The man shook his head wearily. "It's the very same thing," he said. He had a soft, patronizing tone that made him sound like a kindergarten teacher. "It's just regional. And yes, it does get confusing. Will you  _please_  kill me already? I can't listen to that midi music anymore." He threw a glance at the arcade cabinet.

Crowley looked back at it, saw the beer on the dashboard, then rolled his eyes and turned on his thugs. "You right skivers," he said, "no wonder our vate isn't in the mood to talk. Do I have to do everything myself?"

The dummies just looked at him.

 **"That wasn't rhetorical**!" he roared.

"No sir," Johnny said.

The other idiot brought Crowley a drink - half a glass of whisky with ice in it.

"Did I say on the rocks?" Crowley asked. "It's January!" He gave the demon a dirty look and sent the drink back with a wave of his hand. The demon cringed like he thought he was going to get smacked. Crowley turned his attention back to the vate. "You see what I have to work with?" he said. "Cookie-headed cowards, the lot of them. Honestly, some days I don't know if I have henchmen or Frenchmen. Garron-. May I call you Garron?"

Garron the Vate sighed. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I need information," Crowley said. "See, I've recently discovered that - despite being a demon - I apparently have some sort of destiny,.. one that's about to go off in my face like a trick cigar. Half the oracles, seers and psychics I've been to have told me, in one style of rustic jabber or another, that I am fated to die at the hooves of one Sam Winchester, very soon, whilst throwing the planet into a tizzy."

"I'd avoid him," Garron said, smiling wryly.

"Not sure I can," Crowley said, "as I happen to have a fabulous tizzy in the works as we speak."

"Then you'll just have to sit back and accept your fate," Garron said.

"You'd think that," Crowley said. "If you were crap at fractions. The other half of your kind seem to think I'll live. They're all blaming me for the loused-up readings - something about my duplicitous nature. Whatever  _that_  means. Now, I've heard all manner of pretty things about you and your visions. All the calamities you've predicted, I'll reckon you have some idea about this. Help me sort it all and avoid my moosey fate."

"I'm here to read you?" Garron asked skeptically. "Are you serious?"

Crowley put his palm out. "How do you want me?" he asked coyly. "Read the palms? Touch my skull a little?"

Garron grimaced. "You're fine over there," he said. "What is your true name?"

Crowley drew a breath to speak, but paused and squinted. "Why?" he asked. "Can't you just bliss out or whatever?"

"I need something to hold onto," Garron said. "So that when I look for your thread of fate in the ether, I'll find the right one."

Crowley thought about it for a second. He snapped his fingers and the two henchmen vanished. "The name's Crowley," he said. "I thought you knew that already."

"Just Crowley?" Garron asked.

Crowley shrugged.

"Have it your way, laddie," Garron said. He closed his eyes, took a breath and hung his head, quietly intoning something vowel-a-licious. This went on for about a minute while Crowley watched, his interest peaked. Garron threw his head back, banging it on the gate. His eyes, whites and all, had gone an odd, murky shade of green. He took a labored breath and spoke in a deep, rumbling voice:

_"The Moon and Sun would surely rule,_   
_But for the Hermit and his Fool."_

"Brilliant," Crowley muttered to himself. "He's singing 'American Pie.'"

Garron went on:

 _"While Kings of Cup and Sword still rage,_  
 _Quarreling in their silver cage,_  
 _The cards are cut, the gates un-shut,_  
 _And so shall fall the mage-._  Fudge!"

"What?" Crowley asked, slightly panicked.

"I just predicted my own death," he griped.

"Stay in the trance," Crowley said, "you've still got my thread."

"You're just gonna kill me anyway," Garron said glumly.

"I would  **never** ," Crowley said. "Go on. I mean, you're in there anyway. Might as well. 'And so shall fall the mage?'"

Begrudgingly, Garron stayed in his trance and continued:

" _The Hierophant's unheeded words-_. 'Unheeded words?' Wait, you're not even listening, are you?"

Crowley stopped checking messages on his phone. "Hm? Didn't catch that last bit."

"Splendid," Garron said. "I'll just go into me little trance again, shall I? Since we have all night. Do you have any idea how difficult this is?"

Crowley groaned. "Fine," he said. "I'm sorry I wasn't listening to your ridiculous little poem. Please, you'll have my undivided attention. And be a dove - skip the parts with  _you_  in them?"

"With pleasure," Garron said, and began again:

_"The Sun must set,_   
_The Moon must rise,_   
_Eclipsed by Justice, fair and great._   
_But swinging by the Hanged Man's rope,_   
_A hope to change their fate."_

"Yes!" Crowley hissed, and subtly fist-pumped. "How do I do it? How do I change my fate?"

But Garron's head fell forward and his body had gone slack. The trance was over.

"Damn," Crowley said under his breath. He got up and snapped his fingers by Garrons ear. When that didn't work, he gave him a smack on the cheek and held his head up by his hair. "Fire it back up, Jambi," Crowley said. "You crapped out before the money-shot."

"That's all there is," Garron said, panting. His eyes were normal again. "There isn't any more."

"Well, thank you, Miss Clavel," Crowley said. "'The Moon must rise, eclipsed by Justice' - what in the name of Heidi Lynne Fleiss does any of that mean?"

"I don't know," Garron said. "But if you mean to change your fate, go to the Widow Volva."

"I'm not going to the Widow Volva!" Crowley shouted. "I came halfway around the globe to be read by you, and I'm getting refered? What kind of a business model-."

"She isn't far from here!" Garron snapped, cutting him off. "It isn't as if you've got to walk."

Crowley sneered and let out a little noise of petulant displeasure. "But she's so  _bloody boring_ ," he whined. "She always has to start from the Beginning of Time, and if she thinks you've interrupted her, she starts all over."

"Well, maybe if you were a bit more patient?" Garron said. "But don't take  _my_  advice, no. It's only your untimely demise, do whatever you want."

Crowley rolled his eyes. " **Fine** ," he said. "I'll go to the Widow Volva, if you're gonna be Mr. Bossy Balls about it. You know, even for a prescient fairy, you're a tremendous pain in the ass?"

Garron glared down at him.

"This can't be the first time you've heard that," Crowley said. "So anyway, good talk." He picked up a brass-handled fire iron that was lying against the wall nearby. "Lovely meeting you. TTFE."

"You said you weren't gonna kill me," Garron said, shaking his head. His tone was more exasperated than anything else.

"I might've fibbed," Crowley said. "The guilt is just eating me up inside." He plunged the poker into Garron's gut with a quick, violent motion.

As Garron died his agonizing death, Crowley added brightly, "It  _was_  good chatting with you, though. Hope you don't think I was lying about  _that_."


	2. Five by Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catching up with Garth and Kevin on Fizzle's Folly.

FIZZLE'S FOLLY - NOON

Kevin sat up in bed in his room. He was listening to the overture to Don Giovanni on his noise-canceling headphones and revising his notes on the demon tablet, removing useless material. For some reason, thrown in with God's dictation, there was a long passage in Metatron's personal brand of shorthand that looked like it was directions, maybe the location of something important. But on further inspection, all laid out, it was clearly just flowery imagery - comparing the gates of hell to a goat in the forest, and waxing poetic about a bloody mound of earth in Megiddo, calling it a garden of lost children. Kevin growled to himself as he read about friendship and isolation, and Metatron's prayers for all God's creations to come together. And "as I write this, I'm reminded of a story about three birds..."

"What the hell, man?" Kevin said to his notes. He tore an entire page out of his binder, crumpled it and tossed it at the wall. "Thanks for the eye-banshees,... jackass."

Every time Metatron tried to create atmosphere, Kevin had to throw out a day's work. He tried to scratch his ear under his headphone with the eraser end of his pencil. I wasn't working, so he took the headphones off and was startled by the booming of loud, muffled music.

Garth was back.

Kevin set his work aside and headed out of his room. When he opened the door, he got the full blast of New Edition's "Candy Girl" coming from the mini boombox in the galley. The desks were pushed against the walls. Garth had just set a chicken and rice casserole on the hot plate and was now tossing old take-out boxes in the trash, whilst doing the Ed Lover Dance in front of the sink.

"Garth?!" Kevin yelled, trying to get his voice to carry over Ralph Tresvant. No mean feat. "Garth!" he yelled again.

Garth turned around, lip-synching to the the music. He cupped a hand by his ear.

"Could you turn it down?!" Kevin shouted.

Garth shrugged and shook his head, started dusting off a few old Michael Jackson moves.

Kevin glared. He yelled, "I'm not doing it again!"

Garth smiled and kept on popping and locking.

"Okay, fine," Kevin said, inaudible over the music. With deep resignation, he went to the center of the room and count to three on his fingers. And then, something magical happened. Something majestically dorky. Kevin and Garth started doing the Kid 'n Play. They didn't have much room, but  _damn_ , they had to have practiced this. Garth grinned merrily as they danced, and Kevin frowned like he was having serious murder-thoughts.

As soon as Kevin had danced over to the boombox, he turned it off. "Can't you use your headset or something?" he asked, still yelling a little. "I can feel my heartbeat in my ears."

"Dang, pilgrim," Garth said. "Is that all you gotta say to your boy after a week? I brought Tex-Mex."

"Excuse me," Kevin said, "but I've had a crap-load on my plate lately, and I really don't need to get roped into a dance-break on the rare occasions when you decide to swing by."

"I beg to differ," Garth said, leaning against the counter. "Take it from somebody who knows, you get a calling this rough and don't balance it out with a little joy, you'll end up like Batman. If we're gonna come out the other side of this monkey storm, we gotta feed our souls. Unclench a little every now and then. Don't shut me out."

"It's not like I have a choice," Kevin said. "Do you get carrots?"

"Tomatoes," Garth said. "Hell, even  _Batman_  had friends."

"Batman had  _staff_ ," Kevin said, cracking a smile. "He was a rich, muscular white guy who liked to dress up in rubber pajamas and punch guys in bowler derbys, then drive his hotrod back to his mansion in total anonymity, with nobody chasing him. He was fine and I'm boned. Did you get oranges?"

"Apples," Garth said.

"I need vitamin C," Kevin said. "I think I have scurvy."

"No," Garth said, "you're just orange 'cause ya ate all the carrots. Besides, you can't make bunnies outta orange slices."

Kevin sighed heavily. "You already made them, didn't you?" he asked.

Garth picked up a green tupperware and gave it a gentle shake. "Face it, pilgram," he said, "dark needs light. Moon needs sun. Frowny Prophet needs little apple bunnies."

" **Stop**  calling me Frowny Prophet," Kevin laughed. He took the tupperware. "Is there new peanut butter?"

Garth moved out of the way to reveal the JIF on the counter. Kevin took it, got a butter knife and went to a desk to start PBing the apple slices. One of Garth's phones rang, (with "This Is How We Do It" as the ringtone) and he turned away to answer it.

"Yo, Red. Hey,... take it easy, dawg. Oh, man, okay. Yeah. 'Buttermere,' where's that? ...Dude, it's a long ways off-. Granted... Where are you now? Good, I got some pals in the vicinity, they're old hands, you're gonna be five by five. Yeah, just sit tight. Hasta." He hung up and turned back the Kevin. "Hey, Tranman, Imma be back in a little while, alright?"

"Wha' happened?" he asked, through half a mouthful of apple.

"Usual stuff," Garth said, looking worried enough for it to not be the usual stuff. "I just gotta go sort my amigo out, reconcile some patterns of demonic activity."

Seeing as he wasn't headless, Kevin could tell something was up. Not much he could do about it, though. "Okay," he said. "Thanks for-." He held up a little apple slice that had bunny ears and a face carved into it. He smiled and laughed under his breath. "Whatever this crazy crap is."

Garth nodded, forced a smile. "Don't let the Tex-Mex burn," he said, before slinking out the door.


	3. Warsaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garth calls on the Winchesters to help out an old friend.

BENTON COUNTY - NOON

Garth made his way out of the wharf where Fizzle's Folly was berthed, heading for the old Subaru he left in the parking lot of a crab shack, "Captain Prawnie's." He took out his phone and called his second contact, waited for the pick-up. "Moshi Moshi, Sami-kun," he said. "Right, sorry. I got a weird one for you fellas... No, it's local, you don't gotta-. It's in Detroit, turn around! I got a friend who-. Do  **not**  come to Warsaw, you hear me? I'm serious-." A car horn honked. Garth spun around and saw the Impala parked further down the wharf. He slammed a fist on the roof of his car. "You idjits tryin' to kill me?!" Garth hung up angrily, got a world map out of his backseat and unfolded it, spread it out on the hood of the car.

Sam and Dean got out of the Impala and made their way to Garth. They were carrying take out - Dean was eating a cup of popcorn shrimp and Sam was finishing an iced tea. He still had red in his sideburns from the "Battle of the Kingdoms". They both looked tired and amused. As they caught up to Garth, Sam squinted up at the sky - it was a little too clear and bright a day.

"Kinda hot out for winter," Sam said.

"Welcome to Missouri," Garth said. "The demon activity in this state's insane, makes the weather unpredictable. Last week, it was a winter wonderland, yesterday was a downpour." Garth looked at Dean and Sam's to-go cups. They had the blue and yellow Captain Prawnie's logo. "How long you guys been here and you can't drop me a line?" Garth asked, with a bitter edge to his voice. Dean and Sam exchanged guilty glances and Garth shook his head. "Forget it. I want you to have a look at somethin'."

He gestured to the map on the hood. There were about three dozen blue and red paper dots it. The red dots were mostly concentrated in and near Asia, with a few here and there in Europe and Hawaii. The blue dots were all over.

"Gonna assume that's not confetti," Dean said.

"The reds are slayings," Garth said. "Started in Gion. Vics were all stabbed to death in the last five weeks, their eyes popped out like they was advent calendars."

Sam and Dean both grimaced at that.

"You need work on the imagery, dude," Dean said. "I just went to a chocolatey bad place."

"Any idea why your guy goes for the eyes?" Sam asked.

"They were all seers," Garth said. "Their eyes are worth a bundle on the black market. Besides, maybe they knew somethin' the guy didn't want spread around."

"These guys could see the future?" Dean scoffed. "Isn't that something that would've come in handy for - oh, I don't know - saving their own bacon?"

"Most of them did predict their own deaths," Garth said. "Sent a warnin' out on the vine. That's the only reason I got as much info as I do about it."

"So they knew what killed them?" Dean asked. " _Ahead of time_ , and they didn't get outta dodge?"

"That's prophecies, man," Garth said. "They can get kinda transcendental. Some of 'em saw a shadow at the door, some a black dog in tall grass. That kinda crap. Nobody knew where or when for certain. But I talked it out with my buddy Red - he's a psychic up in Detroit - and he's piss-scared this thing's comin' after him soon. So you two gotta book it in reverse, 'cause he's the closest thing to lead we got. See, the blue dots are all seers who think they're on the boogie man's list, and they're everywhere. Plus, this guy's bouncin' around, goin' the long way. We can only guess where he'll hit next.

"Arizona," Sam said.

"The guy's random," Garth said. "There's no pattern to it."

"Yeah," Sam said. "Except the nautilus."

Dean and Garth stared at Sam. Sam edged Garth out of the way and used his pinky to trace a logarithmic spiral on the map - starting at Japan - that got wider until Sam was tracing on the car. It hit all the red dots on the way, except the ones on the other side of the map.

"Okay," Dean said, "but wouldn't that take him off the edge?"

Garth and Sam both looked at Dean like he was an idiot. It actually took Dean a little while to get it.

"Look," Garth said, "maybe it's his pattern, I don't know. I'll see if I can send some hunters down that way, but I want you guys lookin' after Red. He's my friend, it'd be a favor."

"Why don't  _you_  go to Detroit," Sam said, "take care of you buddy. We can go to Arizona."

"I'm needed here," Garth said, looking around himself, as if to make sure he wasn't being watched. "If this thing's on it's way to The States, that is."

"You think Kevin's next," Dean said.

By the look on Garth's face, it was obvious Dean hit the nail on the head. "I dunno," Garth said. "I mean, he's a different kinda prophet, right? But all the same, I ain't leavin', not until we get this squared away. You on board?"

"Sure," Sam said. "This guy got an address?"


	4. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate, Crowley goes to the super-boring Widow Volva for help.

FLAGSTAFF - AFTERNOON

In the Pine Park RV Resort in Flagstaff, Arizona, two demons stood guard outside an airstream trailer, kicking away some loud, orange cats that wouldn't leave them alone.

Inside the trailer it was all yellow and white, furnished art deco style, with cherry red accents and cheesy little tchotchkes all around. At the nose of the trailer was the dinette - a circular booth with a little round table that was set for low tea. The spread was American and granny-style, from the alfalfa sprout sandwiches to the honey taffy and peanut butter fudge squares. There were two red crystal glasses, yet to be filled.

At the icebox, an old woman fetched out a red crystal carafe and brought it to the dinette. She was a sunny, goofy little blonde, dressed in khaki polyester. She was frail-looking, but had a sort of vigor about her, like Teddy Roosevelt.

Crowley sat in the booth, awkward and annoyed, and trying his damnedest not to show it. "I suppose you already know why I'm here," he said.

"Do I look like the president of your fanclub?" the old woman asked, giggling. She filled her glass. "Honestly, I miss the hell out of being obscure. Back in the day, nobody expected jack squat from me, and now I'm supposed to be everyone's biographer." She held up the carafe to Crowley. "Hemo?"

"Not really," Crowley said, "but I'm very European. Gives the same impression."

"It's a drink, chuckles," she said, and filled his glass. "It's got vitamins, I'm sure you've heard about those on TV." She smiled and sat down across from him. "Why don't you take your coat off, honey, you look like an ass."

Crowley took a deep breath through his nose. "Mistress Volva," he said, "I've been refered to you. Half my sources say I'll live, half say I won't. But as a demon, I shouldn't have a destiny of my own at all. You can see how the matter has me at loose ends. It's one thing to hear you're destined to die, you can get your affairs in order. But this... How does one make plans? You see my dilemma."

"I see a crock of bull," Volva said, and took a big sip from her glass. It made her so happy. "But if I had to venture a guess-."

" _Guess_?" Crowley asked. "You're  _guessing_  about my fate?"

"Shut up and drink your drink," Volva said. "It's not there to wash your beard in.  _Anywho_ , as I was saying. If I had guess, I'd say your fate was tangled up with a human's. That can happen when you cross a hero-type."

Crowley took a sip of his drink and choked a little. "You didn't happen to put an entire bottle of rum in this?" he asked.

Volva nodded. "That's how I take it," she said.

"Now, what did you mean, 'hero-type?'" Crowley asked.

"Well," Volva said, "there are certain individuals out there whose actions are destined to count from more than your average jerk-off. And when they have a choice set in front of them - like whether or not to leave the house - the two possible outcomes can change the world in very different ways. The whole of creation is a series of binary choices, linear and logical in progression, but with unpredictable repercussions. Like Plinko! When there's a place of both great heat and terrible cold-."

"Missouri," Crowley said. "You're thinking of Missouri. This is all very illuminating, madam, but I was wondering if you couldn't give me a reading? I need to change my fate."

"Well, like I said, a place of heat and cold. But I should probably back up a ways, so it all makes sense."

"You don't have to back up," Crowley said quickly. "Just go straight to the part about my fate and how to change it."

Volva scrunched her nose thoughtfully. She shook her head. "Hmm, I really should back up, though," she said. "See, in the Beginning of Time, there was an insurmountable gap, and to one side of it was a place of fire. To the other side, a place of ice..."

As she told her story, Crowley's face fell with sour resignation. He started drinking his Hemo.


	5. Flashpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean get chatty on the way to Detroit.

THE IMPALA - INDIANA HIGHWAY

Six hours on the road and the Winchesters were heading east through moonlit Terre Haute. The view from the car was unreal, like the backdrop in a carnival dark ride - blue fluorescent mountains and pine trees on all sides. As "Bargain" by The Who faded out on the radio, Dean looked contented, lulled by the pleasant rattle of the heater on full blast. He glanced to the passenger side. Sam was frowning at nothing, totally spaced-out. Nothing new, but it was too good of a night for Dean to look over and see that.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah?" Sam said, as though it was a random question. Maybe it was. "Why?"

"I dunno," Dean said. "You looked like you were halfway between Ferrari and Le Tigre, thought I'd ask."

"Sorry," Sam said. "Just because I'm not grinning like an idiot and drumming on the dash, doesn't mean I'm-."

But he was cut off as "Jumpin' Jack Flash" came over the radio. But it wasn't just any Jumpin' Jack Flash. It was the one the Stones recorded live in Tokyo, in 1989.

"No way!" Sam yelled happily. "Flashpoint! ...God, I miss that CD. I remember, I heard that version of 'Ruby Tuesday' in that... that Denny's? Couldn't get it outta my head."

"Dad hated that album," Dean said, smiling and shaking his head. "He'd groan like a tween whenever he heard it through your headphones. 'Come on with that thing, Sam, I can hear Jagger going bald!'"

They both laughed. It was fun tormenting Dad.

"Where'd you get the money for that discman, anyway?" Dean asked. "I know Dad didn't give it to you."

"You know that frozen frog bet in Oceanside?" Sam said with a smirk.

"Those kids never saw a frozen anything in their lives," Dean snickered. "How much you collect on that one?"

"Just fifty," Sam said. "But it put me over the top. I'd saved most of that cash from back in Bountiful.

"Bountiful?" Dean asked. " _Utah_? You were eight, Sam, when did you make money?"

"You don't remember?" Sam asked. "We were extras.'"

Dean kept his eyes on the road, looking a bit embarrassed. "I, uh,... I don't think you remember Bountiful," he said.

"We were in the 'Sandlot,'" Sam said. "Remember? They were shooting the pickle scene. And..." Sam chuckled, remembering. "You were in love with Mike Vitar."

"I don't even know who you're talkin' about," Dean said. "But if I  _did_  know him, he was my friend and that was it."

"You carried his soda around," Sam said. "He called you Tom."

"Tim," Dean said, getting a little upset. "And I don't remember, so can we just drop it, Captain Buzzkill? Besides, how would you know? You got food poisoning and tossed your cookies on James Earl Jones."

"I  _wish_ ," Sam said, sounding oddly sincere. "I never even saw the guy."

Dean gave Sam a WTF look, but was distracted as a highway patrol car passed them in the left lane.

"Dude, Baby Cop!" Dean said, and stepped on the gas. He pushed the car to sixty, ten over the speed limit.

"No," Sam said anxiously. "We're only halfway to Motown, you heard what Garth said."

The patrol car turned around, siren on and lights flashing. It started chasing them.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said, grinning evilly at the road. "We gotta test out the new badges. Five minutes, tops."

Sam sighed, giving up way too easy. "Alright," he said. "I'll get the sandwiches."

Dean pulled over and got out. Sam got two sandwiches out of the backseat and scooted out of the driver's side of the car. As the patrol car pulled up behind them, they opened their sandwiches and started gnawing on them with hostile expressions. Dean glowered, kept his shoulders back and rubbed his chest with his free hand. Sam was hunched and snarling, and held his sandwich with both hands, like a harmonica. The cop got out of his car and walked up to them cautiously. He was young, about twenty-two, and not all that big. They glared at him, but kept chewing. They looked like honest-to-god, backwoods freaks.

"I'm gonna hafta ask you two gentlemen to get back inside your vehicle," the cop said, trying not to sound scared.

The boys kept on eating their sandwiches. But then Sam breathed through his nose so heavily, it blew lettuce out of his BLT. That was enough to crack them both up and they finally broke character.

"Sorry!" Dean said. "We had to, man. We're just messin' with you." He and Sam flashed their FBI badges to the officer.

"Agents Perry and Schon," Sam said, smiling with a sort of apologetic wince. "We're on our way to the DA's conference in Detroit."

The cop looked pissed for a moment. Sam and Dean traded worried looks.

The cop pointed at them. "You guys had me going," he said, then cracked a smile and shook his head. "What the hell was with the sandwiches?" The boys shrugged. "You guys are trouble - I just called this in!" They all laughed together for a minute. "Wouldn't try that again, though," the cop said, heading for his car. "You were too good, the next guy might draw on ya!"

"Last time," Dean said, "we swear!"

The cop got in his car and drove off, leaving Sam and Dean waving. Sam was giving Dean a disapproving look.

"That was actually pretty close," Dean said, still laughing.

"I wonder if he remembers you," Sam said, getting into the driver's side.

"What?" Dean asked, looking worried.

"Mike Vitar," Sam said, as innocently as he could, before shutting and locking the door. He scrambled to get all the doors in the Impala locked while Dean hightailed it to the other side of the car, hoping to beat Sam to the passenger side lock.


	6. Cutting Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's had enough of the Widow's "old lady" crap.

FLAGSTAFF - NIGHT

Back at the majestic airstream trailer of the Widow Volva, Crowley was white-knuckling it through hour five of his reading. He and Volva had gone through two pitchers of Hemo and rum, and the whole thing was starting to get weird.

"Where were we?" Volva asked, trying not to laugh.

"My fate and how to change it," Crowley said.

"Really?" she asked. "I could've sworn we were just out of the War of the Sixth Coalition."

"Nope," Crowley said, "you just keep confusing me with Napoleon. I'm trying to be flattered."

"Oh, take the compliment," Volva said. "All the seers liked him best! It was so refreshing, not knowing which way the wind blew with that one. Cute, too. But he had these creepy, little doll-hands."

Volva giggled to herself, not yet noticing the way Crowley glared at her, drumming his fingers on the table. Once she had, she cleared her throat and rubbed her hands together.

"Okay, let's get going with that fate of yours," Volva said. "Sam Winchester kills you."

Volva and Crowley sat staring at each other for a moment.

"That's it?" Crowley said. "Just like that?"

"Exactly like that," Volva said. "Should I back up a little?"

"No!" Crowley said, unable to keep his voice down. "I mean, let's concentrate on the part where I can change it."

"You can't," Volva said. "But thanks for playing."

"What about the Hanged Man's rope?" Crowley asked. "Are you saying the Vate was just shining me?"

"Oh, that," Volva said. "No, he was right. There is a way to change it. But not for you."

Crowley took a breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth, trying to hold his rum. "Why not?" he asked.

"Well," Volva said, "the fact that you even have a destiny is because you've tangled your thread up with a couple of heroes. One of them has the power to take your life, and the other - the one with the tiny head - has the power to spare it."

"You're talking about Dean, aren't you?" Crowley sighed. "He's the Hanged Man, or whatever? That's just... perfect."

"Or the Pope," Volva said, and held her head. Too much Hemo. "You ever make a pact with the Pope?"

"That would be Napoleon," Crowley said.

"Are you sure?" Volva asked. "The Pope, or... an angel. You both wanted the world, wanted the souls-. Want. Past or present tense? ...It's so damn confusing. But the Hanged Man  _is_  Dean Winchester. Years ago, he made a choice - a little, insignificant one. And it snowballed, like a hero's choice is wont to do. He and that big, Patrick Swayze-looking bastard were meant to die, and you were meant to live. But you just had to throw your wash in with theirs, and now, they're the only ones who can put it right. Nice knowin' ya."

"Wait a minute," Crowley said. "Are you saying the Winchesters could change it back?"

"If that's what you're hoping for," Volva said, "then I can guess how you got in this mess in the first place. It's a pipe-dream, honey. No villain with half a brain makes deals with angels and heroes."

"You're right," Crowley said bitterly. "It's a good thing I'm not a villain, then."

"I'm serious," Volva said. "There are two roads to nowhere in front of you, kid. If you don't wanna end up back here again, begging like a chump for some lead to pull your ass out of the fire, then-."

"Screw it," Crowley said. "I know I can't kill you. You wouldn't have let me in here if I could. But I  _do_  have something you want." He took a took a folded-up paper out of his pocket and opened it. It had a rubbing of some runic engraving in the middle. "This look familiar to you? It should, it's from the marker of your life-debt."

The color drained from Volva's face. "Where did you get that?" she asked, her voice gone hoarse.

Crowley clucked his tongue at her. "Tragic," he said. "The way Odin screwed you out of your life to save a man who, it just so happens, can't be killed. A man who wouldn't touch you with a Bat'leth, from what I hear. Sad. Of course, you have no one but yourself to blame. I mean, no seer with half a brain makes deals with gods."

"That little turd," Volva muttered to herself.

"All-Daddy Odin," Crowley said. "What a mensch, practically a crossroads demon himself. You know, he and I had something special back in the day? He even gave me your life-debt.  _For nothing_."

Volva's breath started to quicken. "He just gave it to you?" she snapped. "My life? Just like that?"

"Exactly like that," Crowley said, getting his happy back. "Now you know how it feels to have your fate in the hands of someone who can't wait to crush you. And when I say 'can't wait,' I'm underplaying it. I would've been here sooner to collect on your debt, but that would mean having to listen to your asinine monkey-chatter all day, so you can see why I took my time. Now. You and I are going to talk creative solutions..."


	7. Welcome Back to Detroit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean return to Detroit. A surprisingly spooky part of Detroit.

THE IMPALA - DETROIT, MICHIGAN

Midnight in Palmer Woods. No wind, no moon. Only street lamps lit the roads, but they were damn near impossible to see through the heavy snowfall. The boy's had been on the road for nearly twelve hours. "Burnin' For You" by Blue Oyster Cult was playing quietly on the radio. Dean was over-caffeinated and anxious, and Sam had fallen asleep with a sad, slightly aggravated expression fixed on his face - the expression he wore so frequently lately, Dean could just call it "Sam Face" and strangers would know what he meant. Dean looked at the crumpled paper Garth wrote the address on:

"Atlas House Inn,  
330 Benedict Drive.  
Ask for Red."

They were on the right street, at the right number, but Dean was a little wigged. The Atlas House was a giant Tudor revival mansion with sprawling grounds. The architecture was dimly lit by hidden light fixtures. It was one of those houses they scout for the kind of movies where everyone dies screaming in vintage clothes. Dean drove up the mossy circular driveway, parked the Impala at the front entrance and gave Sam's shoulder a shake.

Sam took a deep, quick breath through his nose and squinted out the window at the house. "Where are we?" he asked groggily.

"Car stopped," Dean said.

"What happened?" Sam asked, sitting up straight.

"She's scared," Dean said in a facetiously grave tone. He couldn't help grinning at his own joke.

Sam laughed under his breath and wiped the sleep out of his eyes. "How far do we got?" he said.

"We're there," Dean said.

"This is the place?" he asked. He smiled like he didn't believe Dean, and then like he didn't want to believe him. "Seriously?"

"Same address," he said.

"So there's just a creepy-ass, isolated mansion in the woods?" Sam asked. "In... Motown?"

"I spotted nine on the way over," Dean said in a somewhat annoyed tone. "Palmer Woods, man. Nice gated community. Sulfur in the crossroads, historic family cemeteries and, oh yeah, we're parked on willow moss."

Sam frowned. "Guess the rich really are different," he said.

Both looking a little worried, they zipped up their jackets, got out of the car and headed for the huge front door. There were stone engravings of saints praying on the facade of the house and a stone balcony above the entryway. Looming over them from the ledge of the balcony was an old, patinated copper statue. It was Michael battling Lucifer.

"What are the odds this guy is fine and we don't have to go in?" Dean asked.

"You wanna tell Garth we bailed on his friend?" Sam asked.

"Fine," Dean said. "But if Mr. Boddy caps us in the hallway with the revolver, you owe me a Coke."

No doorbell. Dean used the iron knocker, but the door creaked opened as he did. Inside the house, there was a line of salt and a line of goofer dust at the threshold. A pale blue light cast strange shadows and hot, stale air carried a sickeningly sweet perfume. A sinister melody played faintly. The boys rolled their eyes. So that's how it gots to be, eh?


	8. The Winchesters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys meet Garth's friend, Red, who's seen a vision of his own death at the hands of a familiar sounding troublemaker. Big surprise: Dean doesn't trust this guy.

ATLAS HOUSE - NIGHT

Sam and Dean took out a couple of flashlights, kept their hands on their pistols and wearily entered what had to be the most tiresomely spooky mansion in Detroit. Heading from the lobby into the pitch-dark sitting room, it wasn't long before they found the source of both the light and the music: a smartphone sitting on an end table, alerting it's owner about a new text message by quietly playing a sad instrumental of "Ghostriders In The Sky." Dean ran a hand along the wall until he found a dimmer switch and turned the lights up.

The sitting room was decorated in Herter Brothers style and was lavish, almost to the point of tastelessness. There was a giant, tiled hearth at the back of the room with an armchair on either side of it. A man slept quietly in one of the chairs - tall guy, roughly Sam's height, in a three-piece gray suit, wearing an anti-possession charm. He was about fifty, athletic, very dark and his head was shaved bald as an egg. There was a rocks glass and a half empty bottle of Pimm's No. 1 Cup on the end table beside him, right next to his smartphone.

"Excuse me?" Sam asked. " **Sir**?" He knocked on the wall.

It took a moment for the man to wake up, and when he did, he bolted to his feet in a panic, drawing a .38 Special on Sam.

Sam and Dean raised their guns. Dean gave Sam a look.

"Fine," Sam said, in a huff. "I owe you a Coke."

Still half asleep, the man seemed to be coming to his senses. "The Winchesters?" he asked, speaking in a South London accent. He lowered his weapon; Sam and Dean lowered theirs.

"That depends," Dean said, giving the man's gun the hairy eyeball. "You know where we can find a guy called Red?"

"I am Red Brennan," he said. He had an oddly measured, elegant way of speaking. Maybe it was the booze.

"Really?" Dean asked with a bit of a laugh. "You're Red? Okay. Name like that, I was... kinda expectin' an Irish dude."

"And how am I not what you were expecting?" Red asked, giving him a sarcastically confused frown. He knew exactly what Dean meant.

Dean looked a little nervous. He turned to Sam, who was giving him the exact same frown as Red, as if to say, _Don't look at me, dumbass, I ain't jumpin' in this hole with you._  When Dean finally thought of something he turned back to Red.

"British," Dean said hopefully. Nice save.

"English," Red said. "And Red is my first name, not my nickname." He gestured to a nearby sofa. "Thank you for driving out, I hope you weren't too inconvenienced."

"Glad to help," Dean said, with equal parts relief and trepidation. He and Sam took a seat on the sofa and Red pulled up an ottoman.

"Garth didn't fill us in on much," Sam said. "You wanna tell us why you think you're in trouble?"

Red set his pistol down on the coffee table and put his hands together, fingers intertwined. He was having a hard time making eye-contact.

"I have visions," Red said.

"We know," Sam said gently. "The other seers had them, too. But  _everybody_  thinks their next. So I guess what I'm tryin' to say is,... what makes Garth so sure it's gonna be you? I don't think he would've made us haul ass from Missouri just 'cause you're solid buds."

"My visions aren't like the others," Red said. "They're not open to interpretation."

"They're vivid?" Sam asked. There seemed like there was an extra bit of sympathy in his voice.

"Like a silent film," Red said. "I saw him come for me."

"It's a man?" Dean asked. "What's he look like?"

Red wrung his hands, bit his lip. Like he didn't want to say. "Have you ever seen 'The Man Who Knew Too Much?'" he asked.

"The... Jimmy Stewart movie," Sam said.

"No," Red said quietly. "Not that one. The one with Leslie Banks." He finally looked up at Sam and Dean, who both seemed profoundly confused. "Never mind," Red said. He was breaking a sweat. "He's my age. Not... British."

Sam and Dean glanced at each other: got it.

Red was having a hard time going on. "He wore a tailored suit," he said. "Black on black. He wasn't as tall as we are, and he was..."

"Chubby?" Dean asked.

"I wouldn't say that," Red said, looking slightly alarmed.

Dean smirked. "Neckbeard?" he asked.

"He had  **a**  beard," Red said.

Dean narrowed his eyes at Red.

Sam looked back and forth between them, not really getting the vibe. "What happens in your visions?" he asked.

"He talks to me," Red said. "Has coffee with me. He takes his time, and then... he takes my eyes. He attacks me in broad daylight, I don't know why or how."

"Can you make out what he's saying to you?" Sam asked.

"There isn't sound," Red said. "There never is in my visions."

"Then what makes you think you're next?" Dean asked.

"I'm walking across the lawn of my church," Red said. "We're planning for a charity lunch. I sponsor one every year on National Pie Day. That happens tomorrow."

"Nice try, Kreskin," Dean said. "But National Pie Day was last week."

Sam looked sideways at Dean, then rolled his eyes.  _Of course_.

"Forgive me," Red said. "I misspoke. I meant, National Corn Chip Day."

Dean's face fell. He muttered to himself, "Damn, he's right."

Sam took a beat to be mildly horrified of his brother, then started with Red again.

"And where's your church?" Sam asked.

"Russell Street," Red said. "'Sweetest Heart of Mary.' It's a beautiful church, but you'll forgive me if I have no desire to die there."

"Yeah, don't worry," Sam said. "We can make you safe right here. I'm pretty sure this is a guy we've seen before, we know how to handle him. You're gonna be okay."

"What does he want with me?" Red asked.

"You're eyes," Dean said. "Information. A date for the prom-. What he's after? Not really the top of our list right now.  **You** are. But if he's the ugly sumbitch we think he is, we've got it covered. Time to hunker down."

Red winced at Dean's words. "But it can't be  _here_ ," he said. "The inn is full of guests at the moment. It won't be safe for them."

"Motel sound good to you?" Sam asked.

Red nodded gratefully. He grabbed his pistol and the three of them headed for the door.

Dean cleared his throat. "Crowley?" he said to Sam pointedly. "You'd think Garth would've said something."

"I didn't describe him," Red said. "Garth never asked."

Red opened the front door. Dean caught up and calmly pushed the door shut before anyone could leave. He got between Red and the doorknob.

"What is it you said you did for a living?" Dean asked Red.

"I didn't mention it," Red said. "But I'm the innkeeper here. Are you wondering how someone so 'British' came at the position?"

"And how come there's Goofer dust at the door?" Dean asked.

"It's an old superstition-." Red began to say.

"How did you know what Crowley was?" Sam asked. He was behind Red now, arms folded. There was something like disappointment in his eyes.

"I saw him in my vision," Red said, turning to Sam.

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "You said there's never sound in your visions - it's not like the guy at the church could tell you his name. And just now you said that you never described the thing in your vision to Garth, which means he never told you the guy's name, either. So how did you know what Dean meant when he said Crowley?"

Red looked back to the door. Dean grinned at him.

" _Hi_ ," he said in a wryly sweet tone. "We're the Winchesters?"


	9. Shadow and Substance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley catches up with the boys. Some messed-up stuff is about to happen.

ATLAS HOUSE - NIGHT

"Hello, boys," Crowley said. He was sitting in the chair Red had vacated, pouring himself a glass of Pimms. With a small, careless hand gesture, he slammed Sam and Dean back against the front door and pinned them there. "I think I needed that. Plans are well and good, but I was getting restless leg syndrome waiting for you chuckleheads to catch on."

"Crowley," Red said, "I did my best-."

"Stop talking," Crowley said. "Everyone, just..." He let out a haggard breath, tried to wave off his exhaustion. "Shut up. I've been listening to hippy seers and nut-job oracles, drunken Norns and giant, bossy fairies for five bloody weeks, and I've had it. It's my turn to talk." He took a sip of his Pimms. "Let's see, what's first on the agenda? Right. Red: set up their little porthole? Get it right, those extra thirty years are as good as yours."

Red looked back and Sam and Dean with sincere compassion, but not regret. "This wasn't what I wanted," he said matter-of-factly.

Sam smiled a pained, sarcastic smile at Red. "Blow it out your ass, Cueball," he said.

"Me-ow," Crowley snickered at Sam. "I thought the 'vivid visions' detail would smash your buttons." He pointed at Red merrily, "You're just gonna be Cueball from now on. I'm telling everyone."

Red took the top off the ottoman he'd sat on earlier. There was a nifty little ritual kit inside - matches, a dagger, a bundle of white sage, small blue candles and a large obsidian plaque. The plaque was etched with strange words around its edges: chove xani ~ ch'orav ~ beng baxt. He removed the items and put the top back on, then placed the plaque on the ottoman and arranged the candles on its frame. He lit them and their wax began to drip toward the center of the plaque and pool up. Red lit and then put out the sage, then began to pace the room, spreading heavy curls of smoke.

Dean shifted uncomfortably against the wall. ""There's gotta be a way to neutralize this crap where he flings us around," he said to Sam.

"Psychokinesis," Sam said bitterly. "The least he could do is get a friggin' nosebleed."

Dean winced. "Dammit, I think I'm on a nail," he said.

"The Lords of the Quarters are in agreement," Red said to Crowley.

"Good," Crowley said. "It's nice to hear those crazy kids have patched things up. Short hand?"

"The errant thread of fate must be burned," Red said, sounding slightly annoyed. "Which is the errant one, I cannot say."

"But you can open a gateway to the other one?" Crowley asked. He put his drink down and got to his feet. "Make sure it's got the ground clearance to squeeze Jay and Mouthy Bob through."

"I'll need your blood on the plaque," Red said, and held his dagger out by the blade.

"Why mine?" Crowley asked, crossing the room to them. "Just stick a tap in the big one, he'll bleed all week."

Sam made a pissy face that.

"You are the joint," Red said. "The only constant between the threads that we know of."

Crowley shook his head. "I hate doing this," he said. He looked sullenly at his left palm. "No Purell for a week."

He took the dagger and cut his palm over the plaque, letting his blood drip into the middle. When the blood touched the pooling wax, it all began to burn in blue flame.

"Mm-mm!" Crowley grunted. "Something smells yummy. Must be that secret ingredient." He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his hand. He stepped up to Sam and Dean, looking them over appraisingly. "The old gang, back together again. I think I'm getting the vapors."

"What's with all strange brew?" Dean asked, sneering. "You get tired of shavin' your back, maybe wanna go halves on some Bommaritos?"

"I think I've missed your class the most," Crowley said. "But enough with old business. I'm in the position to offer you boys a rare opportunity to change the world. See, at some point in the past, a thread of fate split in two-."

"The chase?" Sam snapped.

"I'm throwing you into another world," Crowley said.

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, baffled.

Crowley arched a brow. "Exposition's not so boring  _now_ , is it?" he said. "At some point in the past, Sweet Dee ripped fate a new one." He flicked Dean's earlobe, just so we'd all know who he was talking about. "Something he did before the Apocalypse changed the planet ever so slightly, and here we stand. But had he not done this tiny, insignificant thing, the both of you would've died at Stull. Both fates are equally possible, but different in the extreme, and have global significance. This has apparently dichotomized time. I'm not a hundred percent on what that means, big picture-wise, but one of these threads has to be jettisoned. I want you two to decide which one."

"The other one," Dean answered.

"Not that easy," Crowley said. "I want you to see the other branch first, kick the tires. Get the feel. It's all up to you, whichever branch you think is better. The catch is, you don't exist in the other one. So if you end up deciding door number two is the best of all possible worlds and want it to come true, you have to kill yourselves."

Dean and Sam gave Crowley the "what are you smoking" frown.

"Don't ask me," Crowley said, "them's the rules. And if you decide that  _this_  is the better world, find the other me and kill him, you'll come straight back."

"How 'bout I just kill you now?" Dean asked. "Save us the cab fare?"

"Not you, Jughead," Crowley said. "It's Sammy's destiny. The only way back here, is if Moose kills me. And anyway, neither of you gets a crack at me until you're in the other branch. All clear on the rules? Are we ready to play?"

"What's in it for you?" Sam asked.

"Worlds are in the balance," Crowley said, trying (not very hard) to sound scandalized. "Besides... I feel we've grown apart these last few years. This is something we can all do as a family."

"Let's just get this over with," Dean said.

" _So keen_ ," Crowley said. "That's why you've always been my favorite henchmen. Don't worry, we're just about ready to start. But first, tell me one thing." He looked Sam and Dean over again and gestured between them. "Just between us, which one of you is the Little Spoon?"

Sam and Dean could barely move, but after that last dig, they did their damnedest. If it had been at all possible to strangle him, one of them would've done it.

Crowley seemed very pleased with himself. "Why don't I just liquify them on the spot?" he asked Red. "Really show fate who wears the y-fronts?"

"You're welcome to try," Red said, unable to suppress a small smirk.

A delighted grin spread across Crowley's face. He pointed his dagger at Sam, then Dean, back and forth, on and on, whispering a lot to himself, the words "if he hollers, let him go" clearly audible in there. At last, he settled on Sam.

Red dropped a large silver coin in the middle of the plaque, eyes shifting to Crowley as he did. Atlas House rumbled around them, like they were experiencing a mini-earthquake. Paintings swayed and knick-knacks fell from the walls.

Crowley stumbled back, incredulous at the commotion around him. Wary now, he raised his dagger toward Sam's throat. The quake began again and the coin on the plaque began to vibrate. He moved the dagger away and it stopped. Moved it back, the quake. Away, stillness. Crowley looked at Sam and Dean, who were looking back at him, and at each other, all three of them clueless.

"What's doing that?" Crowley thought aloud.

"Rube Goldberg?" Red said smugly.

Crowley turned a wrathful scowl on Red. "If you're behind this-." he began.

"I'd only be hurting myself," Red said. "I know. Excuse my bit of schadenfreude at the devil's expense. We might as well get back opening the gateway. You can always try to kill him again afterward."

Crowley turned back to Sam, but glared at Red out of the corner of his eye: he seemed to have changed his mind about who he wanted to kill.

"Cackle while you can, Witchy Poo," Crowley said. "We'll see how funny you think this tomorrow night, when you're kibbles and bits."

"I have one day left," Red said firmly. "And if they break the thread, I earn my thirty years. That was our agreement."

"Then fire up the grill," Crowley said. He backed a safe distance from the Winchesters.

And Red knelt by the plaque and recited:

_**"Munu osanirakrar vaxa..."** _

As he spoke, the silver coin began to spin on its edge.

_**"...Bolsmun alls batna..."** _

"You're about to enter another dimension," Crowley said. "A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind..."


	10. The Twilight Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean wake up in a weirder world. How are they getting cell reception out there?

STULL, KANSAS - NIGHT

Icy rain. High winds. No moon. It had been a bleak night in Kansas if there ever was one, and it was far from over. Despite the downpour, the ground in a certain field was hard and barren. There wasn't even dead grass, just earth and rocks - with all the large, broken stones, it might as well have been a quarry. Dean woke in a coughing fit, laying on his side in the mud, choking on rain water. His skin had gone purple from the cold, but he wasn't soaked. Couldn't have been out in that weather for very long. It took him a minute or two to get his head right, and once he had, he got to his feet and tried to get his bearings. He turned his maglite on the field.

" _Sam_?" Dean said.

He was going for volume, but his voice hoarse and broken. He dug his phone out of his pocket, said a quick "thank you" to the universe in general when he saw it still worked, and called Sam's cell. It took a few seconds, but it wasn't too long before Dean could hear something coming from a few yards away in the dark: the bridge from "The Way Life's Meant to Be." (In any other circumstances, that would've made Dean smile.) Limping on a numb leg, he followed the sound of ELO up a small incline until he found Sam on the ground, still out cold. Dean knelt down next to him and started shaking him awake.

"Hey," Dean said. He pulled Sam by the front of his jacket and sat him up out of the mud. "Come on, up and at 'em. We gotta go."

Sam was awake now, and shocked by the cold. "What happened?" he asked. "Where are we?"

"No idea," Dean said. "You okay?"

"Feelin' really creeped out right now," Sam said.

"Good that you're on topic," Dean said curtly. "But we need to get outta the rain,  **now** , or we're both gonna freeze."

"Right."

Dean helped Sam up, but as he did, he saw something on the ground where Sam had been laying. He shined his flashlight on it.

" _Son of a bitch_ ," he said under his breath. "Don't turn around, Sammy."

Saying that never works. Sam turned around and freaked right out when he saw it: scorched into the rocky ground was the blackened silhouette of a man... with a pair of giant wings. The ash was so thick, it might as well have been asphalt.

"Jesus, what the hell?!" Sam shouted.

"I don't know," Dean said.

"Was that...  _mine_?" Sam asked. "Did I do that somehow?"

"Come on," Dean said. He gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze. "We gotta move."

Just then, they heard gunfire. "You git on out from there!" a man shouted in a very distinct Texas drawl. "This here's a sacred place! Yes sir."

"Smitty," they said in unison.

Dean walked ahead and waved his arms. "Hey, Smitty!" he yelled, choking. They could hear the man pump the action on his gun. "It's the Winchesters!"

Another shot sounded.

Dean flinched and put his hands up, looking a bit sheepish. "We're not that bad," he said to himself. "Dallas Smith!" he hollered. "We need help!"

Up ahead, a flashlight came on and found Dean. He turned his flashlight back on the guy. He was an old man, about seventy, short and hunched at the shoulders, but with a hearty energy about him. And unlike  _some_  idjits, he was dressed for the rain and cold - he wore a long, red plaid wool coat and hat, and tall rubber chore boots. The man approached them, lowering his shotgun.

"You're Mary's boy," Smitty said. "Dean Winchester?"

"Yeah, it's me," Dean said.

"I heard tell you were dead."

"Well, you heard tell wrong," Dean said, smiling as friendly as he could manage. "Can you give us a ride?"

"What in God's name are you doin' out in the cemetery?" Smitty asked.

Sam blanched at that. That's why he was so creeped out - they'd woken up in Stull Cemetery...

 _Great_.

"We, uh,... came to pay our respects," Dead said anxiously.

"In the middle of the night?" Smitty asked. "When I saw lights, I thought you were vandals. Or more of those devil-worshiping hooligans."

"There  **were**  hooligans," Dean said. "Total... actual hooligans. They were all hopped up on The Drugs,... and worshiping some kinda Satan, and they got the jump on us. Stole our car. And I think they broke Sam's coccyx."

Sam shot Dean an annoyed glare.

"Is that Sam?" Smitty asked, and shined his flashlight on him. "Christ Almighty. You got big, son. Yes sir, you are the spittin' image of your granddaddy, rest his soul. Real handsome."

"Thanks," Sam said.

"It's too bad about yer tailbone," Smitty said. "Goddamn teenagers. You boys come on with me, we'll get ya sorted out."

"We just need a ride," Sam said.

"Nonsense," Smitty said. "I know you two been down on yer luck since the fire. Come on, I live right across the road these days. You can do a wash, maybe spend the night if ya need to. Yes sir."

Dean and Sam shared a look. A night at old Smitty's...  _Double great._


	11. Ramble On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, hobbits and the Woe. What could've happened to Stull to make this kind of mess? Ask me why the dog's name is "Goose."

STULL, KANSAS - MORNING

Right about breakfast time in Smitty's dingy Winnebago. As he was an older man, he kept the heater a little too high and one could smell several aromas unavoidably associated with dog-ownership. All the shades were drawn. A Tommy Edwards mixtape played quietly enough not to wake anyone. In the "living room," Dean sat under a blanket in the only armchair, trying in vain to get some extra sleep, frustrated by how uncomfortable he was. Sam didn't seem to be having the same problem, as he slept lightly on the far more comfortable couch, which he seemed content to share with Smitty's scruffy old white shepherd.

"Sam," Dean said. " **Sam**. You awake?"

"No," Sam said, his eyes still closed.

"Switch with me," Dean said.

"No," Sam said. The dog started waking up and nosing it's nose in a nosy way on Sam's face.

"Come on, I can't sleep," Dean said. "This ain't your motor home. Don't bogart the couch."

Sam scratched the dog behind his ears and they both sat up together. Sam was wearing one of those good-for-almost-nothing free t-shirts from a morning zoo show and Bermuda shorts while his clothes were in the wash.

"I got the couch because you told Smitty I broke my ass-bone," Sam said.

"So get a butt donut and quit your bitchin'," Dean said, a note of hostility creeping into his voice.

The dog tensed up and began growling at Dean, looking at him like he was an especially provocative squirrel.

"I know," Sam said to the dog. "He's like this every morning."

Dean threw his blanket off in anticipation of having to make a strategic exit. He was wearing old army sweats from god knows when. The original "Morning Side Of The Mountain" began playing on the sound system. Sam and Dean both made a face.

"How long is this tape?" Sam wondered aloud. He took his phone off the counter and started scrolling through his address book.

"I dunno how much more of this old guy music I can take," Dean groused, putting his boots on.

"Now you know how  _I_  feel," Sam said, then turned to the dog. "I'm so understood this morning." The dog licked his nose.

"Zep's timeless," Dean said. "And unlike your whiny chick-rock, their songs are actually  _about_  something."

"If by 'something' you mean 'hobbits,'" Sam said snottily.

Dean took a deep breath in through his nose, glaring like he wanted to wring Sam's neck. "That was symbolism," he said. "Shut up."

"Oh," Sam said. "So not literal hobbits? More like pretend ones."

" _Shut up_ ," Dean said.

Sam and Dean stared at each other for a moment.

Sam smirked. "Did they go to Metaphordor?" he asked, trying not to laugh.

"I'm an inch away from goin' Tarantino on your ass," Dean grumbled.

"So what?" Sam asked. "You're gonna play crappy, Old Guy music until I'm super-bored? You're already Tarantino, Dean."

"You want an authentically broken coccyx?" Dean asked, getting to his feet. "Keep it up."

"I think my buddy Goose might have somethin' to say about that," Sam said, and turned to the dog, feigning excitement. "Right, Goosey?  **Goose**!"

Goose let out a happy little woof (someone was saying his name!) and Sam grinned.

"Enjoy your honeymoon," Dean said, and he went in back to get his coat out of the dryer.

As Dean stood in the little hallway, something in the bedroom caught his eye. There was a big watercolor over the bed. It was simplistic, highly stylized and not very good, but pretty easy to make out: it featured people separated by a stone wall. On one side, a green woman, weeping, surrounded by little farm animals in a pasture. On the other side, a blue man and a gold woman embraced in a black room. There was a scroll held above the scene by cherubs that said, "St. Louis."

Dean shook his head in disapproval. "Yikes," he said to himself. He put his coat on and went out, leaving Sam staring at his phone's address book.

Dean started to say, "Hey, you need any help out here?" as he came down the little stairway. But as his eyes adjusted to the winter sun, Dean finally saw Stull in the light of day, a sight that slapped the words out of his mouth. The place had been devastated. Where they were parked, there wasn't a lot in the way of houses to begin with, mostly just farmland, but there wasn't a building within sight that wasn't demolished. Trees were bent and broken, the road was cracked. The Winnebago was berthed in a gravel driveway by the ruins of a farmhouse.

The cemetery across the road looked like the hypocenter of an explosion. The fence around the place it was knocked back and any headstones within were reduced to rubble - that's why the place had looked like a quarry the night before. The site was almost hypnotizing. Even as far away as they were, Dean could still see the winged silhouette clearly. But in the daylight, from that vantage point, he noticed something he'd managed to miss before. There was another silhouette.

"You come to help me back out?" Smitty asked.

" _Ahh_." Dean cringed a little. He hadn't noticed Smitty was there. "Can I just ask, what the hell happened here?" Dean said.

"You just answered yer own question," Smitty said. "Hell came and went. Yes sir, this is where The Lamb touched down."

"The Lamb?" Dean asked. "Wow, that's either the lamest nickname for a hurricane I've ever heard, or-."

"The Lamb of God," Smitty said kindly. "He that liveth and was dead. The one with the keys of Hell and of Death."

"Wait a minute," Dean said, profoundly confused. "Are you saying that this place was nuked... _by Jesus_?"

"My Elma always knew this was gonna be where the Second Woe would peal off," Smitty said.

When he mentioned Elma, something in his voice trembled, but whatever wackadoo thing it was he was talking about, it seemed to make him proud.

"Sure," Dean said skeptically. He looked at the cemetery out of the corner of his eye. "God knows, I've seen weird."

"It only gets weirder," Smitty said. "You watch TV?"

"Not in a while," Dean said.

"Good," Smitty said. "Stay away from it. That's where you'll see him. He walks the earth with the face of a man. Swallows the stars of heaven. They'll bring that filth right into your home if you let 'em."

"Right," Dean said in a heavily patronizing tone. "That's how they getcha."

Smitty arched a brow at him. "I'm talkin' about the Beast, sonny," he said. "I know what it sounds like, but it ain't no laughin' matter. The dragon gave him his power, and his seat, and great authority."

Dean frowned. Some of this was starting to ring a bell. "What exactly did Elma say?" he asked.

"Enough to get her excommunicated," Smitty said. "It's one thing to believe the Lamb will come as in Revelation, but it's a whole other to say it's happenin' in Kansas within a year. Yes sir. Especially for a Mormon. They're a bit particular about things like that. I supposed they were sorry for how they cast her out when the Woe sounded. Some men from the government came in the next day, tellin' people it was a plane crash. But there weren't no wreckage. You could tell the older one was a practiced liar." He added confidentially, "The young one was a bit touched, if ya ask me."

"So, you saw this happen?" Dean asked, zipping his jacket up. "This 'woe' thing?"

"Elma saw it," Smitty said. "She didn't make it through, as you can imagine. Burned her eyes right out of their sockets, poor thing. But she insisted on bein' here, and no one ever got that woman to change her mind."

"I'm sorry," Dean said.

"She was a hard one," Smitty said. "Mean, she was, and smart as a whip. And life ain't the same without her. That's why I moved us over, so I could be near her. Yes sir. That, and someone has to watch over this place. They let the Beast loose, God only knows what'll jump out of that old pit next."

Dean looked a bit sick. "Shudder to think," he said.

"I'm gonna start the motor-home," Smitty said. "You guide me while I back out."

It took them about ten minutes, but eventually, they got on the road.

SMITTY'S WINNEBAGO - MINNESOTA HIGHWAY

Smitty drove his old motor-home east on I-70, ten minutes outside Lawrence. The dog was laying on the floor by his feet, practically under the gas pedal. Sam and Dean sat on the couch.

"You boys got family nearby?" Smitty asked.

"Not really," Sam said. "We're gonna take the bus."

Dean frowned at that.

"Well, the buses don't run down here no more," Smitty said. "But I can give ya'll a ride to the station in Kansas City, yes sir, ain't but an hour's drive from here."

"That'd be great, thanks," Sam said.

"Not that it's any of my business," Smitty said, "but where ya headed from there?"

"Sioux Falls," Sam said. "We got people there."

"Good to hear," Smitty said.

Dean gave Sam a look. "We do?" he whispered. "And since when do you know where we're going?"

Sam looked a little anxious, a little sad. "I wanted to wait 'til we were alone to say anything," he whispered. "But,... while you were out talking to Smitty, I... I called Bobby. And he answered."


	12. Minutiae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forget it, Sammy. It's the Time Crotch.

BUS STATION - KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI

Getting close to noon, it was a warm and sunny day in KC. Dean and Sam had left the Greyhound terminal and boarded a bus leaving for Sioux Falls. Even though it was practically departure time, there were only two other passengers on the bus. The boys took a couple of seats in the very back, Dean taking the window seat.

Sam peered at the sky outside. "You see that?" he said.

"See what?" Dean asked. "There's nothing-."

"Exactly," Sam said. "It's January in the Midwest and the sky is blue? It's warm out. An hour ago, we were in Kansas and it was raining death."

"Think there's anything to it?" Dean asked. "Me, I stopped quoting Chinatown years ago."

Sam sighed. "Yeah, I'm kinda starting to not care anymore," he said.

Dean snickered. "One of these days it's gonna be raining frogs," Dean said. "Won't even give a crap. Back on topic. Whose ass do we kick about this friggin'... Time Crotch, anyway?"

"Okay, we are  _not_ calling it that," Sam said. "Also, it kinda sounds like it was your ass."

"You believe  _Crowley_?" Dean asked.

"We have nothing else to go on," Sam said. "All we can do is play 'what do we know' with half a deck."

"Yeah, right," Dean said concededly. "Okay, where do we start? We know we're not in the past-. We're not, right? I mean, Bobby's alive, but I'm still seeing all the same billboards. It's 2013."

"Seems like," Sam said.

"And I allegedly did...  _something_ that created a parallel universe," Dean said.

"Not parallel," Sam said. "Like, two equal branches, forking out from the same fixed point."

"Like a Time Crotch," Dean said smugly.

Sam glared at the seat in front of him, his mouth shrinking practically into a dot.

"No," Sam said, but moved on quickly. "We also know that, in this version of the present, we died during the Apocalypse."

"How do we even have a phone plan here?" Dean asked.

"Off-topic," Sam said.

"Right," Dean said. "I saw two angel stains at the cemetery-."

"Michael and Lucifer," Sam said.

"-So we know we took those goons down with us," Dean said.

They took a beat to be kind of pleased with themselves. In this version of events, they killed Michael and Lucifer.  _Nice_.

"I'm guessin' Bobby can fill us in on the rest of the story," Dean said. "I mean, whatever changed, it sounds like it happened pretty close to zero hour. Or else more would be different."

"Or less," Sam added.

"Right," Dean said. "Then all we gotta do is..."

"Kill Crowley?" Sam asked. "'Cause we've been so rad at that for the past four years-. Well, three and a half."

"I thought it was two and a half," Dean said.

"You forgot about the year you were in Purgatory," Sam said.

"Yeah, but then what about the year I spent with Ben and Lisa?" Dean asked. "Are we just gonna split the difference?"

They sat for a moment and considered it, frowning thoughtfully.

"Off-topic," Sam said.

"So what if we don't play?" Dean said. "We don't find Crowley, we don't off ourselves. It's a bad pitch - I say we don't swing."

"Was that even a question?" Sam asked.

"I'm just sayin'," Dean said. "What happens if we don't? Based on what we know."

"Best case scenario?" Sam said. "We'll be stuck in this dimension forever and Crowley still wins."

"Awesome," Dean said bitterly. "What's the worst case scenario?"

"The... two dimensions try to occupy the same space at the same time," Sam said. "Both telescope. Time either stops, or it comes undone, and we're talking galactic annihilation."

Dean stared at Sam for a moment. "And which episode of Doctor Who are you basing that on?" he asked.

Sam looked a little embarrassed. "The Wedding of River Song," he said. "But, to whatever you're about to say:  _Alex Kingston_."

Dean thought about it. "Touché," he said.

The bus finally started moving, pulling out onto the road. Dean squinted out the window as something caught his eye: a billboard - black with red lettering, in something very like the Hellraiser font. At the center, it read "Season Three" and beneath that, "Revelation 13:5."

SIOUX FALLS - SUNDOWN

Sioux Falls, the Winchester's one-time second home. The whole town was blanketed in ice, just as cold and gray as January in the Midwest ought to be. What little noise you might hear on a busy day was drown out by high winds and snow-plows. After about six hours on a bus and fifteen minutes in a cab, the boys arrived at Bobby's and saw something that scared the hell out of them.

Even at it's best, Bobby Singer's place had been a ramshackle nightmare for decades - the way there wasn't a dividing line between the giant salvage yard and the shuttered old house. Cars piled on top of cars. A place for everything and everything wherever Bobby felt like putting it, mind your own damn business. Even after the rottweiler had been gone for years, even after the house had burned down, it had still been a place that people avoided walking past at night. Without mentioning it to each other, Sam and Dean both held the same sad, little hope - that the house would be intact again, still spooky and cluttered, yet occupied and comforting. Like they remembered. But too much had changed there. They couldn't help feeling for a moment like they'd somehow forgotten the address.

The fence around the property was replaced with hedges and there were lampposts every so often to kill the gloom. The old garages were still outback, but the junkers were all gone - which seemed like an impossible feat, even with three and a half years to do it. There was too much snow to tell, but it seemed likely there was grass in the yard again. A neatly shoveled circular driveway led to the front of the house, there was a set of white wicker furniture on the porch and the roof was re-shingled. The house was brightly painted now. Friggin' yellow. The only clue to whose house it might be now was the beautifully restored blue Chevelle parked in the driveway. But the thought that this was where Bobby lived in this dimension was too much. The boys looked properly wigged.

Sam shook his head, at a loss. "I don't know," he answered.

"I didn't say anything," Dean said.

"Really?" Sam asked. "'Cause I could've sworn I just heard someone say,  _'what the hell'_."

"It's okay, man," Dean said anxiously. "I heard it, too."

They walked up the driveway... of the cheerful, well-kept house. God, it was weird. Like a flash-back dream with bad intel. Someone turned off a light in the second story window and had moved the curtain aside, just a bit. They were being watched.

"What did you say to Bobby on the phone," Dean asked.

"Nothing," Sam said.

"Bobby was there and you didn't say anything?" Dean asked.

"I called my dead friend on the phone and he answered," Sam said. "I panicked."

Meanwhile, the front door swung open and someone stepped out onto the porch. It was Bobby, but again, some things had changed. He was a lot more groomed than the man they knew. Not the superficial version he broke out to impersonate law-enforcement, but full-on, haircut every week, "I got a beard-trimmer for Christmas" kind of groomed. He still dressed like an old redneck, but his clothes were newer, in better condition. He'd gotten some color, too. But he seemed more aged than he ought to have been by now. He had the sad, decrepit look of an ex-president. He also had a shotgun. A nice one, with a big, shiny suppressor. Sweet, but off-topic.

"Took you long enough," Bobby said. There was hostility in his voice. A severe smile on his face. He was so pissed off, it could count as a super-power.

He pulled the gun to his shoulder and aimed vaguely at Sam and Dean. They put their hands up.

"Bobby?" Dean said, trying not to freak out. "It's us, Bobby, we can explain."

"Yeah, I  **bet**  you can," Bobby said. "I don't know who your boss is, but tell him I said 'nice try'."

They braced themselves. Bobby aimed at Dean. But before he could pull the trigger, someone ran out ran out onto the porch.

"Bobby, stop!" Castiel shouted. " _It's them_."


	13. Losing Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fight it, Sam... Sam?

BOBBY'S PLACE - SUNDOWN

Bobby took a step forward and to the side, putting himself between Castiel and the boys.

"Get back in the house," Bobby said in a low voice. He refocused, aimed his gun at Sam.

"Cas, take that thing away from him already!" Dean barked.

Castiel shook his head subtly, looking positively apologetic. But the fact that Dean asked made Bobby pause. He didn't lower the shotgun, but a sort of skeptical expression took over his face.

"Bobby, listen to me," Castiel said. "That's Sam and Dean - the real Sam and Dean. Put the gun down. Please." He reached out trepidly and set his hand on the barrel of the shotgun to lower it.

Bobby put the shotgun down, seething. "If you're really them," he said, "then you know what comes next."

Sam and Dean nodded grudgingly. Time for the tests. Bobby gave Castiel a look. Cas went into the house and the others followed.

Walking into this dimension's version of Bobby's house, the boys got another little shock. The books were all gone... That bears repeating. There wasn't a single book in sight. The furniture was appropriate to the rooms - a dinette set in the kitchen, etc. The study was a living room again. It had a large flat-screen television opposite a sectional couch. There was a new coat of paint on the kitchen cabinets, new appliances, and the shutters were all open. The banister leading upstairs was replaced with something sturdier. House plants in every corner. The old wallpaper was still around and the floor wasn't varnished or anything, but the place was spotless. The last time the house was close to being in this kind of shape, the dead were rising.

Dean leaned in to Sam. "There's a friggin'  **house**  in this house," Dean whispered angrily. "What's a house doing in Bobby's house?"

Sam was too distracted to answer. He was staring longingly at something in the kitchen. "Dude, he has one of those Keurig things," he said.

Dean gave Sam a hard tap on the face. "Hey, don't start drinking the kool-aid," he said. " _My_  side, Sam, you're on  _my_  side."

Sam nodded. "Right," he said. "Sorry."

Sam and Dean sat at the kitchen table. Bobby had put out shot glasses and was filling them with holy water, all the while keeping his back to the wall. And Castiel was... well, he was doing something at the stove. Bobby noticed.

"Will you get outta here?" Bobby asked, annoyed.

"You were letting it boil over," Castiel said.

Bobby shook his head and took a silver knife from the sheath in his back pocket.

The boys drank their shots and Sam took off his jacket, rolled his sleeve back. As he did, Bobby gave him an odd look. He was holding something back. He handed Sam the knife and Sam cut his forearm. When he was done he passed the knife on to Dean, who did the same.

Bobby seemed satisfied after that, but when he relented, he slunk off to the living room with a conflicted, almost sad look in his eyes. He sat on the couch, next to something round and white. It looked like a throw pillow from a ways away, but no. It was a New Zealand white rabbit, and it was staring straight at Sam and Dean. They flinched when they saw it, over-reacting a tad.

"I think that varmint's mad-doggin' us," Dean said.

"Why is Bobby sitting with it?" Sam asked.

"That's Frank," Castiel said. "He's  **my**  rabbit, and he's okay to be on the couch."

The boys turned back to Castiel. They finally had a moment to notice that there were a few things different about him, too.

Castiel had always been a little bit like a character on Scooby-Doo: he always wore the same thing the same way and he was always a little on the stiff side (he just didn't have the excuse that it made animating him cheaper). So whenever there was something even a little off about him, it stood out. In this dimension, Castiel didn't wear an overcoat. He didn't have a necktie, let alone a screwy one, and he wore cuffed jeans instead of slacks. His hair was neat. He wore a v-neck navy sweater over a white Oxford shirt and a pair of beat-up old army boots that looked more like something Bobby would wear. He just looked...  _nerdier_ , if that was even possible.

And he was cooking.

"Is Cas making spaghetti?" Sam whispered to Dean.

Dean grimaced. "Man, I hope that's not for us," he said.

"Yeah," Sam said halfheartedly. "Only... I'm really hungry."

Dean looked at Sam like he was turning into a pod person.

"What?" Sam whispered defensively. "It smells okay."

"It smells like Prego, dude," Dean said.

"You once called Prego your favorite vegetable," Sam said. "Look, it's been three years. Maybe he's learned to cook."

"I've watched this guy get outsmarted by a revolving door," Dean whispered. "I don't trust him with my internal organs."

The more they talked, the louder Castiel's cooking got. Finally, he brought two plates of spaghetti with garlic bread over to them. He got them forks and practically slammed Dean's on the table in front him, giving him mighty bitch-face. He then went back to the stove, plating the rest of the pasta.

Sam and Dean eye-balled their food for a moment. Sam picked up his fork. Dean shook his head, eyes wide with warning: for the love of god, Sammy,  _no_. Sam looked at Dean, then at the spaghetti, then back at Dean.

Sam took a deep breath. "See you hell," he said, and then dug in.


	14. Bizarro World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean can't be bought, and he can't have the orange smoothie.

BOBBY'S PLACE - NIGHT

Dean was getting tired of watching Sam wolf down his spaghetti. He briefly thought about giving his a try, but couldn't bring himself to eat anything made by a guy who doesn't know how a necktie works. So, Dean went to the fridge for a beer, but got what was probably the worst shock of the day. Nearly everything in the refrigerator was healthy. Vegetables, fruit, bottled water, smoothies in ever color and...  _vegan mayonnaise_. But no booze. Dean felt his stomach lurch - he was about to throw up a little. God help him if Sam ever saw this. Dean shut the fridge and turned back.

"What are you looking for, Dean?" Castiel asked. He'd been standing behind the refrigerator door.

Dean had to take a second to compose himself. "Just gettin' a beer," Dean said.

"We don't have alcohol in the house," Castiel said.

Dean glared at him for a moment, then pointed toward the living room. "That the real Bobby?" Dean asked, dead serious.

"If you're thirsty, we have plenty to drink," Castiel said. He opened the fridge and gestured helpfully to the smoothies. "You can have any one of these you want... Except that one." He pointed to the only orange one. " _ **That one's mine**_ ," he said darkly. It sounded like a threat.

Dean nodded, tried to smile. "I'll keep that in mind," he said.

Castiel smiled in an unsettling, dead-eyed way. He got two green smoothies out of the fridge, set them on the table in front of Sam, then got the two plates he made up and brought them into the living room. It'd been a little while since Dean had witnessed anything that frightening.

"Dude, did you see that?" Dean whispered to Sam.

He turned to see Sam with a smoothie raised to his lips. This annoyed Dean no end.

"What am I even asking you for?" Dean whispered angrily. He sat down again, leaning back from the table. "This is Donita all over again."

"Who's Donita?" Sam asked, starting to get defensive.

"You remember when Dad used to take us to that house with the big lizard skeleton hanging from the ceiling?" Dean asked.

"No," Sam said.

"Of course not," Dean said, all pissy. "Donita Hayes was this anthropologist Dad visited for a few weeks out in Owensboro, he used to take us over to her house. Said she was helping him on a job, but I could tell somethin' not-right was goin' on. We'd have these big, corny dinners there and they'd act like everything was normal. You agreed with me that it was sketchy."

"How old was I?" Sam asked, in a sort of dry, exasperated town.

" _Old enough_ ," Dean said. "The point is, we were gonna do a walk out. Together. But then 'Donita' gave you a box of crayons and some paper, and suddenly you two were solid buds. You Judased me, Sam."

"How. Old. Was I?" Sam asked again, getting ticked.

"It doesn't matter," Dean whispered. "You always do this to me - you're a friggin' comfort whore."

Sam gawked at him, scoffing, too taken aback for words. Because _nuh-uh_.

"You wanna ignore how weird everything is here?" Dean asked quietly. "That Bobby's a teetotaler with a clean house? Or how about Cas eating and drinking?"

"We've seen Cas do that before," Sam whispered.

"Only when something wasn't right," Dean said. "Cas ate his weight in Mickey Dee's because famine was screwing with his head."

"What about Gabriel and Balthazar?" Sam asked. "What if angels just start eating after a while?"

"Gabriel was a basket-case," Dean said. "The guy ate enough sugar to power daily trips to Cardassia. And Balthazar drank because he was slut. And  _that's how we live with it_."

"Look, we-." It took a second for that last bit to connect. Sam shook it off. "We still have to figure out where Crowley is," he said. "If anyone's gonna know, it's Cas and Bobby. So just... let it fly for now."

Meanwhile, in the living room, Bobby and Castiel sat on the couch, the rabbit between them, their untouched spaghetti on the coffee table. Bobby was resting elbows on his knees, occasionally re-adjusting his cap. He seemed depressed and a bit anxious. Castiel was watching Sam and Dean's hushed arguing from the corner of his eye like it was a stakeout. He picked up the rabbit and held it to his chest, petting it in a listless, almost sinister way. Like a Bond villain.

"Sam's hair is magnificent," he said matter-of-factly. "We need to find out what happened. Tell them what's been going on here."

"It'll keep 'til the morning," Bobby said. "You find a book that works?"

Castiel turned back to Bobby, his expression softening. "I thought,... The Tempest," he said. "It looked involved. And it's thick."

"Uh, Bobby?" Sam asked. He walked over to the couch, arms folded. It felt weird to him, asking for something from Bizarro Bobby. "We were wondering if we could crash some place?"

"Well, there's a guest room now," Bobby said, throwing a look in the direction of the back hallway, "you're both welcome to it."

Sam looked intrigued. "Thanks," he said, in a quiet, distracted kind of way. He backed through the kitchen until he was closer to the hallway than Dean. "Dibs on the bed," he said quickly, before sprinting off to find the guest room.

"Sam!" Dean shouted after him, getting up. "You don't get to bogart other people's stuff, Sam!" He took off after Sam.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "There's  _two beds_ ," he muttered. "Idjits."

Castiel shook his head. "I never realized how odd they were," he said, all the while petting his rabbit.


	15. Up and Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast in the Time-Crotch. Can we call it something else, please?

BOBBY'S PLACE - MORNING

When Dean woke up the next morning to his stomach cramping. He sat up, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. The guest room at Bobby's was kinda crappy - the room was all brown and there was a lot of weird crap on the walls, like you'd see at a mom'n'pop. License plates, old tin signs. One of those singing fish. Dean laughed under his breath when he saw it, being the only person in the world other than Bobby who still thought those were funny.

The room was still decorated for the holidays and there was a string across the wall with Christmas cards hanging from it. One had been taken down and left on the dresser, but it wasn't like that the night before. Dean got up and checked one out. The front had "Blessings of Christmas" by Thomas Kinkade. Inside, the words "Merry Christmas 2012" were printed in red ink. There were little notes written in it, one that said "I promise we'll make it next year! Love, Jody". There was also a toony little sketch of a creepy-staring spider monkey that said "DOOM" under it. It was signed by Annie Hawkins. Son of bitch. Dean looked at the bed Sam had slept in. It was empty. Hell, it was made.

Dean dropped the card and went down stairs. He could hear a news story blaring from the radio: "...Radio City Slasher, who assaulted game-show host Rodrick Spode last year, has now been identified as seventeen-year-old Alfred Lake, who went missing from his mother's home in Sinclair, Wyoming just prior to the attack. Previously, Pastor Abin Cooper of the Five Points Trinity Church had claimed responsibility for the stabbing, despite having an ironclad alibi. Police are now conducting a nation-wide manhunt for Lake..."

Dean made a little frowny face to that, but underneath the story, he heard a sound that made him light up like a happy, little elf. Meat was sizzling. Dean rushed into the kitchen just in time to watch Sam moving breakfast sausages onto a plate piled with scrambled eggs and toast. There were groceries on the counter, so real eggs and sausages.

"Saturated fats," Dean said in awe.

Sam turned back. He looked so effing happy. "You didn't eat dinner," he started to say with a shrug.

Dean clapped Sam on the back. "Sometimes I regret tryin' to give you to the mailman," he said, grinning like a jackass. He started snooping through the shopping bags. "Did you see the-." Dean stopped. There was beer in one. And lemon meringue pie in another.

Dean pointed at Sam. " _You_ ," he said. He held his arms out and started walking toward Sam. "Bring it in, buddy! Up and Over, come on!"

Sam's eyes widened and he shook his head, taking a step back. He remembered what "Up and Over" meant.

"Too bad," Dean said, "it's happening!"

Sam braced himself, his face all scrunched up. Dean laughed maniacally and lunged toward Sam like he was going to tackle him at the waist, but came back up with Sam hiked over his shoulder.

"Yer a good man, Charlie Brown!" Dean said, and went on laughing. He grabbed his plate, took it to the table. "You see that Christmas card? I figured that's why you were in such a good mood."

"Dean, I'm gonna ralph," Sam said. But he couldn't help smiling.

"You're never making me breakfast again, are you?" Dean asked.

"Nope."

Dean put Sam down on the counter. "You see the card?" he asked again.

"Which one?" Sam said. He hopped off the counter and dusted the toast crumbs off his ass. "There's one with Rufus' name on it, one with Annie's. Hers is from a month ago. So, yeah, big morning." He grinned and started cleaning up.

Dean took a seat, pulled another chair around to put his feet up on and started eating. "There's parts of this Time-Crotch thing that ain't half bad," Dean said. But as he thought about it, he noticed someone peering into the kitchen.

The scene from Castiel's perspective was chaotic. The big mess on the counter, the radio turned up, the feet on chairs, the saturated fats. Castiel wasn't happy. But he didn't say anything, he just went and looked in the fridge. What he found made him breathe heavy.  _His orange smoothie was gone_. He closed his eyes for a moment, got a blue smoothie and closed the door, poker-facing like one could not believe. He went to the table to sit down, but stopped in front of Dean.

"You're sitting in my chair," Castiel said.

Dean smirked and started eating his eggs slower, looking at him pointedly.

Castiel gave him a withering look. "Fine," he said, and sat down on the other side of the table. You would've thought he'd been asked to leave the country for the amount of pouting he was doing over it.

"Bobby wants to talk to you both," Castiel said, opening his smoothie. "You need to know what's happened here."

"Great," Dean said. "Let's start with how you're human now."

Sam turned and looked at them. "Whoa, what?" he said.

"Mortal," Castiel corrected. "You don't remember what happened?"

"While we were dead?" Dean asked. "Nah, we breezed out."

"You're mortal?" Sam asked.

Castiel frowned at them both. "I was mortal the last time we saw each other," he said.

Dean looked completely lost, but Sam seemed to be catching on.

"You mean in Detroit?" Sam asked. "Before we went to say yes to Lucifer?"

Castiel nodded:  _duh_.

Just then, Bobby came in carrying a laptop under his arm. He looked the kitchen over and then looked at Castiel. He seemed nervous.

"Everything okay in here?" Bobby asked.

"What happened to you guys at Stull?" Sam asked.

That confused Bobby. And seemed to hurt him a little. "We didn't make it to Stull, son," he said.

Sam and Dean shared a look. Now they could put a little more together. Bobby and Castiel never went to Stull Cemetery when Lucifer and Michael fought each other. Lucifer didn't kill them, Castiel was never resurrected, he never got his powers back. So, had he been living with Bobby ever since?

"Then how'd we win it?" Dean asked. "If you guys weren't there to distract Michael, how come they didn't nuke the planet?"

"Beats the hell outta me," Bobby said. "I figured we got lucky, somethin' out there went pearshaped."

"We distracted  _Michael_?" Castiel asked.

"You holy-fired the crap outta him," Dean said proudly. "Then Lucifer exploded you. Most badass thing I'd ever seen."

Castiel went back to his smoothie, a little smile creeping onto his face.

Bobby didn't looked too thrilled. "Maybe we should catch you two up on what's been happening here," he said.

"We saw," Sam said. "Annie's card in the guest room? Rufus? And you guys are both good." He smiled, a little breathless with glee. This dimension was awesome. "Sounds like things turned out great."

Bobby and Castiel shared a look of their own.

"I got somethin' you need to see," Bobby said, and put his laptop on the table. This wasn't gonna be good.


	16. Inferno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering where Crowley's been all this time....

ST. LOUIS - MORNING

It was the beginning of another sunny day at Heathcliff Studios, a quaint old movie lot in Missouri that had been back in business for the last three years. The architecture was in the Spanish style, stucco walls, with a high-rise at the hub of the lot. There were a few crew members going about their work outside - a woman from the wardrobe department moving a large rack of clothes, a landscaper with a leaf blower, some set decorators - but not much activity. A group of people left one of the sound stages and walked together, talking. A familiar figure at the center of the group was essentially holding court.

"I've been told by Standards and Practices we're crossing the line with Butcher's costume," Crowley said. "Apparently, focus groups found the human-skin jacket to be in bad taste. We need to think of something less objectionable, but equally dynamic..."

Yes, the Crowley of this dimension. He looked a heck of a lot happier than the one we're used to seeing. He was clean-shaven, a bit more casual, and well-rested. He smiled more easily.

"They're aware of the hell theme, yes?" one man asked. He was swarthy and had that somewhat elusive, know-it-when-you-see-it look of a doctor. "They get their way in this, sooner or later, anything's on the chopping block."

"I hear what your saying, King," Crowley said. "But it's a small issue with wardrobe. We're playing ball so they can't say we're difficult."

"They're the ones splitting hairs," King said. "Besides, it's the principle of thing."

"We  _not principled_ ," Crowley explained, in a slightly exasperated tone. "The network's looking for a fight, so we're not giving them one."

Another guy in the crowd snickered. "What are we, French?" the guy said.

Crowley stopped in his tracks, staring at the guy. Everyone stopped with him.

"Who the hell is he?" Crowley asked.

"Shipley," the guy said.

"Lydecker," Crowley said.

Another guy in the group stepped forward. "He's your new P.A., sir," Lydecker said.

Standing next to each other, these two guys fit the same basic description - six foot tall, blond male in his mid-forties, corporate dress - but they wore it so differently. The first one, Shipley, was a Steve McQueen type, broad and well-built, on the scruffy side, with a smirky face and a New York accent. The second guy, Lydecker, had an English accent. Skinny, pale and very posh, he looked like a mod throwback. He had late-nineties Bowie-hair and wore a blue skinny-fit suit.

"What happened to Ellsworth?" Crowley asked Lydecker.

"You set him on fire, sir," Lydecker said. "It was  **tremendous**."

"That's right," Crowley said, smiling nostalgically. He gave Shipley a cold look. "I don't know how you got a job here with that chauvinist, knuckle-dragging attitude, but your flapping lips reflect on  _me_  now."

Shipley laughed nervously. "It was a joke," he said. "You know... the French?"

Crowley looked at him like he was a jerk. "No one's laughing," he said seriously.

Crowley started walking again, but before anyone even tried to catch up, he stopped, looking like he forgot something.

"Do we have any landscapers on the payroll?" he asked thoughtfully.

A shot rang out.

Crowley stumbled forward, smoke rising from the back of his right shoulder. An electric shock went through him. King went to his side.

Crowley caught his breath. "On his heels, girls!" he yelled.

Two biker chicks happily tore off after the gunman. The others gathered around Crowley.

"King," Crowley said, "bring the car around. Noole, you're with me. Legion, you're on security. Lock us down - nothing gets in, nothing gets out." He turned to Shipley and Lydecker. "Dempsey and Makepeace, to the front gates. You see any pigs: damage control. Officially, this was a special effects malfunction. And the rest of you, spread out!... ** _I want that landscaper_**!"

Everyone sped off with their orders. Shipley and Lydecker ran off for the front gates. Lydecker took a wallet out of his jacket, checked the badge and I.D. inside it and handed it to Shipley. They stopped when they reached the curb.

"Why's King gotta drive the guy?" Shipley asked, winded. "I heard Crowley could do that, uh... that 'Nightcrawler' thing."

"He can," Lydecker said, "but nothing can teleport on studio grounds. It's a spell."

"Right about now, you gotta wonder over crap like that," Shipley said.

Lydecker shook his head. "Nah," he said. "See, that sniper's not human. And now? He's not getting out of the studio alive."

"You think?" Shipley asked, keeping an eye peeled for police cruisers.

"Dolly and Mog are after 'em," Lydecker said. "We'll be lucky if there's anything left to torture... You were a detective?"

Shipley grinned. "Manhattan," he said. "How'd you know?"

"I was an inspector for the London Met," Lydecker said. "You have the look." He put a hand out. "Thomas."

"Fred," Shipley said, taking his hand.

" _Well_. Welcome to the Inferno, Fred."

BOBBY'S PLACE - MORNING

Everyone gathered around Bobby's laptop to watch video he'd cued up of some TV show. There was an arena packed with screaming fans, some holding signs. The place looked like a dark cavern, with giant torches, armored guards and bones coming through the walls. The camera panned over the crowd, and then to a pit with a young garage band. They had a slightly goth look, like the venue, and most of them were the dark and brooding, 3rd Eye Blind wannabe types, but the lead singer was a washed-out, snotty-looking blond guy.

"Are you ready for Damnation?!" he roared into the microphone. The audience went nuts. "Are you ready for the Inferno?!" There was more cheering. "Are you ready... for the Devil?!" Cue the sound of people losing their little minds. He lowered his voice, trying for a gravelly, Marilyn Manson thing. "He's the host of our show, the man who'll have you saying, ' _Get thee behind me_.' I want you to applaud like your lives depend on it - 'cause they do! Put them hands together, for our Lord and Downfall, Mr. Crowley, the King of Hell!"

Sam and Dean looked at each other: holy crap, did that kid just call Crowley the Devil  _on TV_?

The camera panned to the entrance, effectively made up to look like the mouth of a cave. As expected, Crowley walked out to thunderous applause. Carrying a cordless microphone, he wore a black wool Milford coat with his suit, and a red waistcoat and necktie - he looked very Satany, thank you. Crowley took a moment or two to bask in screaming adoration.

Meanwhile, Sam and Dean looked extra-pissed.

"It's good to be back," Crowley said, shutting the crowd up. "Hiatus was a bitch." There was agreement cheering. "We'll begin here in a moment, we're just waiting on my lovely co-host." This warranted cheers and whistles. "My partner in crime, my totem in the event that any Inception-like scenario should occur." He got a decent laugh for that one. "He's a delicate rose amongst the dick-weeds and he likes to make an entrance. Give it up hard for my special angel...  _Balthazar_!"


	17. Another Dimension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright, you got me. I've been building up to Balthazar. The talent has arrived!

THE PENTHOUSE - MORNING

The top floor of the high rise at Heathcliff Studios was a penthouse apartment. Elegantly appointed, it almost looked like a Spanish castle. The main area had a giant, sliding glass wall that cut off the living room from the antechamber, though the wall was currently open. In the living room, there was an antique bar, a coffee table that looked like a pewter coffin, and very large flat screen television. An old vintage Wurlitzer jukebox played Dusty Springfield's "I Only Want to Be with You". Instead of a couch or chairs, there was a grand piano with a wide bench.

It was a good thing the piano bench was wide, as there were currently three people testing the capacity. Two petite brunette women - twins dressed as security guards - were on either side of a man, necking and groping the daylights out of him. The ladies' name tags read "Moeko" and "Keiko".

The meat in their proverbial sandwich was the Balthazar of this dimension, for all intents and purposes, exactly as we knew him. He looked amused with the twins, but restless, and kept eyeing a tray that sat atop the piano. It had an unopened bottle of whisky and two black lowball glasses on it.

Out in the hallway, one of the elevators opened, and Crowley and King stepped out. Crowley had been using King as a crutch, but shoved him away as they got near the door.

"Get to Legion," Crowley panted, actually sounding thrilled. "It's all hands, today, I can feel it."

"You don't want me to take that bullet out of you?" King asked, looking slightly relieved.

"You shidiots did enough letting Urkel into the lot," Crowley said, "I don't wanna see any of you again until you've found him."

King looked properly threatened, and being apparently obsequious, he nodded and went back to the elevator. Crowley straightened up the best he could, a shock going through him as he did, and went on to the apartment. When he came in, he saw the scene as we'd left it, Balthazar and the security guards. He took a moment to roll his eyes.

"There's an intruder on the lot," Crowley said. "We need everyone on security!  _Move_!"

The ladies broke apart from Balthazar and were suddenly all business. They both did a little fist pump and shouted " _Ganbarimashou_!" in unison before running out of the apartment to kick something's ass.

Balthazar got up with them and headed for the door, but Crowley caught his elbow to stop him, though it clearly pained him to move.

"I need a favor," Crowley said.

As Balthazar turned back, he saw the ugly, weeping wound on Crowley's back. "Mignon," was all he could say.

"What happened to the sofa?" Crowley asked cluelessly, his voice hoarse now from yelling.

"I'm writing a musical," Balthazar said, and he helped Crowley over to sit at one end of the piano bench.

Balthazar opened the coffin table and got out a Flash Gordon lunchbox full of first aid. He sat beside Crowley and started cutting the fabric away from the wound.

"Why the hell isn't King here?" Balthazar said, sounding a little desperate. "You know I'm no good at this."

"Just get the bullet out," Crowley said. He turned so that Balthazar was behind him and braced himself on the piano. "The boys let me down again. I'm running out of stupid, worthless things to compare them to."

"I liked 'bowl of mice,'" Balthazar said. "Have a whiskey?"

"I told you, I'm on the wagon," Crowley said.

"Present circumstances," Balthazar reminded.

He examined the wound. The bullet was in there deep, tweezers weren't gonna get this done. Balthazar got a hold of Crowley's shoulder with one hand, the other he held before the wound, slowly rubbing his finger tips together - it looked like he was miming twisting and pulling an invisible thread from the wound. Staring, trying to concentrate, his re-seated himself on the bench to the he was facing Crowley's back, a leg on either side of him.

Balthazar smiled. "I just feel like we're playing bobsleds," he said, delighted.

"Stop straddling me," Crowley said dryly, "this isn't a casting couch."

"If you tell the twins that, I'm in trouble," Balthazar said.

Crowley looked a little grossed out. "You weren't de-flowering the night watchmaids on  _the bench I'm sitting on right now_ , were you?"

"Of course not," Balthazar said. "Some little attention whore had to get himself shot and interrupted us." He eyed the whisky again. "You know, we were such a laugh at first, you and I. Now look at us. I think the last time we played a game, you kneed me in the pills."

"We weren't playing a game," Crowley said. "It was Cinema St. Louis and you tackled me in the aisle.  _Again_."

"Well, we  _all_  tackled you," Balthazar said, "that's how you play 'Get down, Mr. President.'"

"I wasn't playing," Crowley said.

" _I know_ ," Balthazar said fondly. "That's why you're always Mr. President."

Crowley glared at him over his shoulder.

"Don't give me that look," Balthazar said, "I didn't make up the rules. So, should we tell the press? The last time that little nerd shot you, our viewing numbers went through the roof."

"Last time they wouldn't have had to search the backlot for a suspect," Crowley said, shifting uncomfortably. "It's just a bit easier to avoid police scrutiny when they're not around to watch you torturing people in common areas-.  **Ow**."

Another shock went through Crowley and Balthazar winced. Oops.

"Besides," Crowley went on, determined to get to his point, "I don't think I can take anymore pity right now. Like that pandering bollocks you thought up for the premiere?"

"Are you kidding me?" Balthazar said. "They loved that."

"For now," Crowley said. "Ever since I gave you input on my character, he's turned into a weenis. You're taking the menace out of the show. I think it's a mistake."

"This again," Balthazar sighed. "There's no  _real_  menace in the show, Mignon."

"Who's fault is that?"

"Lord, just admit what this is really about," Balthazar said wearily. "You can't separate yourself from the fictional Crowley."

Crowley gawked. Who can't what? "That's...  _rubbish_ ," he said.

"I'm right and you know it," Balthazar said. "The same thing happened to that little tit who played Harry Potter, and it landed him in therapy. You're always sticking up for Fake-Crowley. Anytime someone criticizes him, you take it personally. You don't like him being vulnerable and you can't stand to see him lose.  _But you have to_. You have to let him fail occasionally, that's what endears the audience. When you want to make a deal with a human, don't you make yourself as appealing as possible?"

"I'm already damn near intolerably appealing as it is," Crowley said. "I might misdirect people when necessary, but if I don't at least project an aura of ruthless self-interest, people will know they're being had. I've played this character a hundred times, I know what I'm doing. He's the villain, they're supposed to hate him. Fear him."

"He's a  **fictional character** ," Balthazar said, so tired of this.

"So's Pinhead," Crowley said.

Crowley couldn't see Balthazar roll his eyes. "I'm sure they have plenty of nightmares about you, too," Balthazar said half-heartedly.

"Don't patronize me."

"Humans want to throw their souls at your feet," Balthazar said, "they just don't know it yet. That's why we have to show them your character has other dimensions."

" _Says you_ ," Crowley said in the snottiest voice he could muster. "Fake-Crowley is  **my**  character and he's never failed me. He's fearsome and heartless, and you're turning him into a sympathetic-.  **Ow**!"

"What?"

"You're twisting it," Crowley said, in a sad little guilt-trip voice.

"It's doing less damage this way," Balthazar said, "don't be such a baby."

"Am not," Crowley said, " _you're twisting it_."

Balthazar had to fight to concentrate. "Well, whining isn't going to help, is it?" he asked.

"When you have a lush with double-vision and butterfingers trying to dig a magic bullet out of  _your_  back, then you can lecture me on stiff upper-lips," Crowley said.

"It's almost out," Balthazar assured him, "but you need to stop clenching. Just take a deep breath and relax all your muscles."

Crowley smirked. "Now you're just doing that on purpose," he said.

Balthazar was smirking, too. " _Maybe_ ," he said. "But listen, if you feel a flash-back coming on, warn me." Finally having dug out the bullet, he held it up over Crowley's shoulder to show him. "There. Congratulations, it's a boy."

Crowley looked back at the bullet with a mixture of disdain and boredom. "I shall call him Tiberius," he said, and flicked the bullet across the room. "Now, about this 'other dimensions' crap - it feels like an overshare. TMI. I thought the rule was, 'always leave them wanting more?'"

Balthazar loaded a surgical stapler. "They can't very well want more if you've only given them Diet Squat in the first place," he said. He started stapling Crowley's gunshot wound closed. "You have to wet their appetites. Let me know if I'm doing this too tight. Sometimes my mind wonders and I get artistic with the seems. I could have a career in this - what do you think?"

"Kudos on changing the subject," Crowley said, only mildly irritated by the stapler. "Very subtle. I thought we were talking shop?"

"We were," Balthazar said. "You said a thing, I said a thing. Yours was wrong. Point: Balthazar. I'm beginning to enjoy stapling you. Is that perverted?"

"Will you shut up about the bloody stapler?" Crowley said, stifling a laugh. "What's the point in having a demon character and an angel character if they meet in the middle? The audience isn't  _that_  stupid."

"Oh, they're  _fairly_  stupid," Balthazar drawled.

"Fine," Crowley said, "but logically-."

"Logic has nothing to do with it," Balthazar said. He'd finished stapling and went on to cleaning and dressing the wound, using more tape than was necessary - he was all thumbs at this part. "People stopped wanting goodie-goodies and soulless bastards in the sixties. Honestly, antiheroes are the biggest thing now. So we give them an angel who's not so good, and a demon who's not so bad. There, all done."

"Good," Crowley said, all maxed out. "I think I need go to lay down... for a year."

He started to get up, but Balthazar stopped him. "You have to stay elevated," Balthazar said.

"Since when?" Crowley asked.

"Since they started shooting at you with magic bullets," Balthazar said sternly.

Crowley shrugged slightly. " _Touché_."

"Here, lean on me," Balthazar said.

Crowley shot Balthazar a look over his shoulder and the two of them proceeded to carry on brief eyebrow conversation:

CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS  
(You're kidding, right?)

BALTHAZAR'S EYEBROWS  
(Would I kid you at a time like this?)

CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS  
(Whatever. We spend  _way_  too much time together.)

BALTHAZAR'S EYEBROWS  
(Yeah, but we're getting pretty good at this.)

With a great deal of pain and effort on his part, Crowley sat back carefully. Balthazar had one arm around Crowley's good shoulder and the other around his waist, letting him rest while trying to keep the weight off his wound.

Crowley let his head fall back on Balthazar's shoulder, trying to breathe. "If you tweet this, I'll kill you," he said. "Moral ambiguity is getting old. Besides, even if you're right, they're not gonna buy it coming from me." He smiled a happy, nostalgic little smile. "What I did in the first season,  _that_  was brilliant. When I said I skin neighborhood cats to make seat covers for my car. And bragged that the unpaid children who make our t-shirts are all Americans. All those pissy little post-its we got from the network."

"I know," Balthazar said, "everyone wanted your head and you barely got any souls of your own all season. But remember when we did that Q&A during the first finale? That goth kid said he thought the show would be better if I wasn't in it."

"Spotty little pillock," Crowley grumbled.

"He wasn't talking about  _me_ ," Balthazar said, "he was talking about my character."

"He was talking out of his ass," Crowley said. "People like him don't understand anything about literary symmetry, internal conflict, thematic unity. They think they can dictate to an artist."

" _Mm-hm_ ," Balthazar hummed, using up the world's supply of sass, "and you bit his head off. Remember the standing ovation you got? And how your soul count spiked?"

"Because I was being scary," Crowley said.

"Because you were standing up for someone else," Balthazar corrected.

Crowley looked ticked for a moment. "Rub it in," he growled.

"I will," Balthazar said merrily. "You were adorable, and now you're adored. See how that works? It was so elegant, someone on the wiki thinks we planned it. They love you."

"They think I'm in the way," Crowley said bitterly.

Where the hell did that come from?

"Of what?" Balthazar asked. "There wouldn't even  _be_  a show if it wasn't for you. You're the brains, you're the straight man - so to speak."

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," Crowley said, in the bitchiest, most accusatory voice that ever was. "I see the two of you - the longing stares, the way you're all over each other when we shoot the promos. 'Dollthazar.' You're glory-hogs, both of you."

Balthazar choked on a laugh. "Dollthazar?" he asked incredulously. "Did you Google yourself again?" He gave Crowley a smack on the hip. "I told you, Google is poison. And anyway, I thought Dolly and I were called 'Bally,' that's so much punchier."

" _Ha_!"

"I'm allowed on the internet," Balthazar said. "I'm not the one who can't handle criticism from the vocal minority. But if people didn't love the format, they wouldn't tune in. It's one thing to add characters and let them evolve, but chucking out any of the main ingredients would be incredibly stupid. Like you said, we're not taking dictation."

Crowley stared resignedly at the ceiling and sighed. "The fans want me out of the way," he said. "They think if I wasn't there, you and Dolly would be a thing." The thought obviously made his skin crawl. "You know what they call me on Tumblr?"

"'The Interrupting Cow,'" Balthazar answered.

But as soon as he'd said it, Crowley looked back at him with an absolutely mortified expression, one that suggested this was the first he'd heard of that particular moniker. Balthazar grimaced when he realized what he'd done.

" ** _They call me The Interrupting Cow?!_** " Crowley screamed, positively enraged.

"Only the die-hard shippers," Balthazar said, petting Crowley's arm. "They're entitled little beasts, you can't listen to them."

Crowley turned away. His anger faded and he gave a weary, dejected snort.

"Poor Mignon," Balthazar cooed, in his most condoling voice. "And here I'd assumed this was Crossroads 101. No one knows  _what_  they want. Not until someone shakes it in front of them."

"Is that the logic behind your wardrobe?" Crowley asked listlessly.

"Do you recall," Balthazar said, "before Dolly and Mog signed on - that poll we had on the website? We asked the fans, 'what would you most like to see on the show,' and what won by a landslide?"

Crowley made his impassive face. "I don't remember," he said.

"I didn't think you would," Balthazar said, giving Crowley a bit of a squeeze, "so I've created a simple mnemonic device to jog your memory. It goes, 'Crowley and Balthazar, sitting in a tree...'"

" _Settle down_ ," Crowley said, trying not to grin.

"And that wasn't even an option on the poll," Balthazar went on. "It was a write-in. A shut-out victory for Crowlthazar. They thought they saw something between us and it intrigued them - and that's all there is to this whole Bally mess. Besides, we need you interrupting the banter, it keeps the show on track. It protects my virtue and maintains a level of unresolved sexual tension. You can never cut the U.S.T. - just look what happened on the X-Files."

They both made a face at that: too soon.

"And you're not shagging that troll?" Crowley asked.

"I swear on our Webby," Balthazar said, looking just a bit shifty as he did. "Look, you wanna find out how much the public really loves you?"

Crowley looked at him like he was effing crazy. " _No_."

Balthazar kept going, ignoring Crowley. "In the next episode," he said, "I'll go on and on about how nippy the arena gets in the winter, shake like a chihuahua through the whole show."

"You already do that," Crowley said.

"But next time I do it," Balthazar said gleefully, "put your coat on me like I'm Marilyn in Bus Stop."

Crowley couldn't help a chuckle. "That's insipid," he said. "And contrived."

"I know," Balthazar whispered in his ear. "They'll love it."

"You can't think they're gonna fall for something that ham-fisted," Crowley said.

"Like a ton of rabid, sexually-frustrated bricks," Balthazar said. "ET news will be playing that clip so much, you'll regret it inside an hour. Trust me, we'll sell it and the audience will go bonkers. It'll be the moment that launched a thousand ships. Your soul count will sky-rocket. Just remember to wear a short-sleeved shirt."

"Admit it," Crowley said, "you're just doing this to get my new coat."

"You've got me," Balthazar said. "Now, do you want a drink or not?"

Crowley thought about it. "One couldn't hurt," he said.

"There's my little wino," Balthazar said brightly. He opened the whiskey and poured a couple of glasses, handed one to Crowley.

"Think there's Mog and Crowley fans?" Crowley asked, a bit hopefully. "Some wank like that?"

"Not yet," Balthazar said. "Apparently, you thus far only have eyes for me."

"How old-fashion of me," Crowley said. "When did that start, anyway? I don't recall us ever shaking  _that_  in front of anyone."

From the attitude in his expression, Balthazar clearly didn't believe him. "You don't remember what we did for the half-time show?" Balthazar asked.

"We did a sword-fight," Crowley said, not getting it.

"We tangoed," Balthazar corrected him.

" _With swords_ ," Crowley said. "It was a metaphor. The battle between Good and Evil. Too subtle for the masses?"

"I don't think 'subtle' is the word, Mignon," Balthazar said. "You licked my neck."

"Is that all?" Crowley asked. "Imaginative little sods, aren't they?"

"Bless them, they are."

Balthazar held his drink up and Crowley clinked glasses with him. Salud.


	18. The Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can only do it once, so make it count.

BOBBY'S PLACE - MORNING

Sam and Dean gaped at the laptop screen when they heard Balthazar's name.

Upon finally making his entrance, when Balthazar stepped out, the cheering was damn near deafening. If he wasn't the star of the show, it might've needed a re-tool. His show wardrobe was very similar to his usual outfit, but in shades of dark blue. (More angelic?) The band played the intro to Rush's "Limelight."

Balthazar met Crowley in frame, turning to the audience in general, and pointed to the band. "Outside Her Syndrome, ladies and gentlemen," he said into his mic, barely audible over the audience. He waited for the screams to die down. "Welcome back, my darling Zealots. Be honest - didn't you miss having us sitting on your shoulders?"

"We certainly missed having you to sit on," Crowley said. He sneered at the audience, gesturing grandly to them as he spoke. "Our squalid gallery of leering spawn," he said. "I thought we had pest control in last month. What are they're spraying you with that keeps you coming back?"

"I have a theory," Balthazar began.

But the fans were laughing so much, he didn't finished. It was too weird: a demon and an angel, playing cute for a studio audience. Balthazar was pouring on warm and fuzzies and Crowley was essentially wicked witching the crowd. They were like the theme park versions of themselves, and the audience loved it - every joke got a decent laugh.

"Enough, enough," Balthazar said, and then turned to the camera, addressing the folks in TV Land. "Before we start arguing about who sprayed what on where, let's have a peak at the Tally and reset for the new season."

"The Soul Tally is basically exactly what it sound like," Crowley explained to the camera. "Everyone watching at home, along with everyone here in the pit, has a chance to bolster our efforts by committing their souls to the cause-."

"And you get to choose where your soul goes," Balthazar said. "All you have to do is print out a copy of our standard contract from our website, make your mark on the dotted line, and send it to us care of Heathcliff Studios to get back a signed copy and a free Zealot Box, full of Inferno merchandise-. They're more than worth your soul, I promise."

" _Or_ , come down to the show an get your contract signed in person," Crowley said. "Tickets are free, but you can only sell your soul once, so make it count. And don't forget to check the box that says who you're giving your soul to."

Crowley and Balthazar both gestured to themselves, as if to say,  _Pick me_.

Balthazar turned to someone off camera. "Alright, Virgil, let's see the board."

The wall beside the entrance opened up to reveal a very Romanesque scoreboard. It showed that Balthazar had five-thousand, two-hundred and twelve and Crowley had three-thousand and ninety-eight.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Crowley said to the audience. "Still? I'm beginning to think you people don't even  _want_  to go to Hell-."

Bobby paused the video. All the guys were pretty mad after that part of the show, but Sam looked crazed, like he was going to explode.

"When is this from?" Dean asked, scowling.

"A few days ago," Bobby said. "But the shows been on the air for about three years now."

"No," Sam said quietly.

"Friggin' Time-Crotch," Dean said. "I  _knew_  something like this was happening."

"It's terrible," Castiel said. "By now, they might have taken half a million this way." He looked down despondently. "I can't believe Balthazar would do something like this."

" _Really_?" Dean asked, with pretty much all the attitude ever. " _You_ don't know how he could make a deal with Crowley?"

"No way," Sam said, shaking his head. He was getting pretty worked up, staring at the paused screen.

"Take it easy," Bobby said.

"You know, I actually felt guilty," Sam said to no one in particular. "Everything here was going so great, and it seems like we just screwed our world up, you know? Like things would be better off without us? But this... The Sam and Dean in this dimension gave their lives to save the world, and... and  _the bad guys get their own TV show?!_ "

"Okay, I'm gonna need you to take a breath," Dean said gently, trying to put a hand on Sam's arm.

Sam pulled away and backed up. "No!" he said, and gestured to everything. " _All this is no!_ " He pointed to Bobby and Castiel. " _You live in a world of_ _ **no**_ _!_ " He inhaled and bit his lip - eyes on the ceiling, hands on his hips - pacing anxiously.

"We're gonna kill 'em," Dean said. "That's what we're here to do, it's gonna be fine. Look at me."

Sam started shaking his head again, looking like he might start to rage-cry. "...,Friggin'  **Gomez and Morticia** ," was all he could say.

"You need to lie down?" Bobby asked.

"He's okay," Dean said dismissively, patting Sam on the back. "We're okay - just play the damn show."

By now, the boys had managed to completely alienate Bobby and Castiel. Bobby unpaused the video.

"Reset the board, Virgil," Balthazar said. "Now let's get to the main event. Two teams are still in play: Last season, Tom and Amanda Newie from Little Rock, Arkansas took the Devil's Path through the second circle and are now advancing to the next arena. Meanwhile, our Navy Seals - Raymond James and Josh Helmann - chose the Angel's Path and were cut down in the seventh circle by our guardians. Do we have a clip of that, Virgil?"

A highlight reel played of another arena, one with a giant roller-derby track. Two muscle-bound men in protective gear were running out the clock, trying to keep their footing as they roller-bladed around the circle, when two familiar women came on screen. They were the biker chicks who ran after the sniper in Heathcliff Studios - one was a petite woman with a slasher smile and a Wonderbra, the other was tall, tan and muscular, with pale blue eyes and a determined expression. They both wore plastic, articulated armor painted to look metal, open-faced medieval helmets, hemp "chain mail" and brown leather. Their costumes looked kinda badass. Even without the slow-mo replay of them clothes-lining a couple of giant Navy Seals in a hell-themed roller derby, they still would've looked pretty scary.

On seeing them, Dean and Sam seemed sick to their stomachs. Sam let out a little groan.

"Oh,  _perfect_ ," Dean whined.

"Yep," Bobby said. "Dolly and Mog, defenders of the seventh circle."

"You know them?" Castiel asked.

"We've met," Sam said, folding his arms uncomfortably.

"At least twice that I remember," Bobby said. "Tough ladies. The boys couldn't win against either of 'em, let alone both of 'em."

"Those things aren't ladies, okay?" Dean said defensively. "They're juggernauts. Couple of bikini-waxed trolls, damn-near impossible to kill.  _Anyone_  who goes up against them would get their asses handed to 'em-." Dean looked at Sam apologetically, patted his shoulder. "Sorry, man, poor choice of words."

Bobby looked at both of them, confused. "Am I missin' something?" he asked.

"I don't wanna talk about it," Sam said. He walked off and sat on the couch next to Frank the Rabbit.

"The goons have a thing for Sammy," Dean mumbled quietly. "They can... get a little gropey."

He turned a sympathetic eye back to Sam, who was now petting the rabbit with a somewhat sullen expression.

"How many times you run up against 'em?" Bobby asked.

"Four so far," Dean said. "Last time, they were slingin' cattle for this strung-out chupacabra down in ABQ. You can out-smart 'em, out-run 'em, or distract the hell out of 'em, but you can't kill 'em."

"A juggernaut can only be killed by other juggernauts," Castiel said. "It's potentially problematic."

"The  **hell** you say," Dean said sarcastically. "Maybe we can buy 'em off. Give 'em Cas as a virgin sacrifice."

Castiel made the Squint of Death at Dean.

When the clip of the rolling butt-kicking stopped playing, they cut to Balthazar standing with both guardians near the audience. The women had their helmets off - the petite one had long, wavy blonde hair and too much make-up, the larger one had short, asymmetrical black hair and a lot of piercings.

"Ladies," Balthazar said, "you've defended your circle once again and claimed a team of worthy travelers. How do you feel?"

He held his microphone out for them both, but the blonde pulled it to herself. As she did, a graphic came up on the screen, identifying her as "Dolly."

"Well, y'know," Dolly said, whist loudly smacking some orange gum, "you just gotta go out there 'n' beat the piss outta e'rybody, 'n' hope fer the best. I try t'imagine the travelers is singin' Jingle Bells, 'cause that really gets my hate up." Her southern accent was deeper than humanly possible and suggested she was some sort of cartoon villain.

Balthazar held his mic out for the other woman. "And you, Mog?" he said. "How do you feel?"

An expletive must have flew out of her mouth, because the first thing Mog said was bleeped.

"**** _heads_!" she yelled. "Aye, we was splifficated from mornin' on, an' I was sure t'have a chaw stowed in me bosoms, fer good spit."

Her graphic, when it came up, simply said "?" and her accent-.

You know what? No idea. No freaking idea. Sorry.

"The always exciting, Dolly and Mog!" Balthazar said. There was much love from the crowd.

Dolly took the microphone again, giving Balthazar a flirty smile. " _Haaay_ ," she said.

"Hey," Balthazar said back, chuckling and giving Dolly some come-hither eyebrows.

"So, whatcha'll doin' tonight?" Dolly asked.

Balthazar tried not to let his smile settle into a grimace. "I'm hosting the show," he said.

Big laugh from the audience.

"Pfft,  _I know_ ," Dolly scoffed, playing it off. "I was just makin' TV talk wich'all."

Thankfully, they switched to whatever camera was on Crowley, who was watching the whole thing, his face emanating epic levels of royal contempt.

"I'm just calling an ad break," he said to some one off-screen. "Can we do that? Yes; no?"

Outside Her Syndrome began "Limelight" again, to play them off to a commercial.

Crowley turned to the camera, "Don't bust that nut just yet," he said cheerfully, "there's more uncircumcised fun on the way when the Newies enter the third circle. Will they choose the Devil's Path again? Find out, when Inferno returns..."

Before Bobby stopped the video, Sam saw Dean nodding along to the music, subtly sturgeon-facing in approval.

" _Nice_ ," he said. "You can say one thing about those two, they know a theme song when they hear it."

"That's all you have to say about what just happened?" Sam asked, annoyed.

"What, it's Rush," Dean growled. "They got taste, is all I'm sayin'."

"Nice to know where the line is with you, Dean," Sam said. "Now who's a whore?"

"I'm not the one you can buy for a box of crayons," Dean said.

Bobby sighed. "It's all comin' back to me," he said.


	19. Marcy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby has some company. Weird.

BOBBY'S PLACE - MORNING

Bobby was going to play the rest of the clip when the doorbell rang. He got up, looked back at the others and twitched a bit.

"Nobody move," he said.

"Why?" Dean and Sam asked in unison.

"Just give me a minute," Bobby said. He went out the front door, only opening it wide enough for him to squeeze through.

Out on the porch, Bobby met with a sight for sore eyes: his neighbor, Marcy Ward, beaming up at him. She was all tarted up in a red velvet tunic and white fur coat, and holding a big red tupperware container. Her little orange car was parked behind her with the radio blaring "Caught Up In You". When Bobby saw Marcy, he grinned and pulled her in for a kiss.

A deep kiss...  _Wow_ , a steamy more-than-friends, spoon-bending kiss. When they finally broke apart, Marcy put the tupperware into his hands.

"I brought over the rest of my pumpkin cookies to tide you over while I'm at Dad's," she said. "I won't be gone more than a week or two, but go ahead and give those floozies of yours a ride."

"They won't all fit in the Chevelle," Bobby said.

"Poor baby," she said, chuckling.

"You know how ornery I get when you're gone," he said quietly.

"I'll bet," she said knowingly.

She smirked at him and went in for another kiss, but stopped short when she saw that Castiel had sneaked out onto the porch.

"Marcy!" Castiel said, grinning wide, about as excited as he ever gets.

"Cas, honey!" she squealed.

Delighted to see him, she left Bobby holding the tupperware and went straight to Castiel, took his face in her hands and gave it a squish, then she kissed his cheek and hugged him.

"I brought my pumpkin cookies," Marcy said.

"I  **love**  pumpkin cookies," Castiel said, in an oddly grave way.

"I know," she said, "that's why I make them."

Meanwhile, Bobby was rolling his eyes - what is he, chopped liver?

"Are you taking the niacin?" Castiel asked. "And St. John's Wort?"

She nodded, "Yeah, with my multi-vitamin, but I gotta get smaller caplets-." She hugged him again, but this time whispered in his ear, real serious,  _"Does he have any girls in there_?"

Castiel frowned and whispered back, " _No, just boys_."

Marcy got a look on her face like she didn't know how to feel about that, but shook it off and gave Castiel a big smooch.

"You make sure he drinks water while I'm gone," she said, and added firmly, "Ice in a margarita doesn't count."

Castiel drew a breath and nodded:  _my bad_.

She squished his face again and went back to Bobby for a kiss. Another deep, consuming kiss. Blindly, Marcy took the cookies from Bobby and handed them to Castiel, who hugged them possessively.

"Oh, crap!" Marcy said - or it sounded like she did, her lips were still smooshed into a kiss. She pulled away. "I gotta fix my make-up."

"Looks fine t'me," Bobby said with a slight shrug.

"Dad'll know," Marcy said. "Outside penny slots, it's his only superpower." She made a dash for the car.

"I thought he knew about us," Bobby said, annoyed.

"He knows we're dating," Marcy said, leaning on her open car door. "But I don't think he knows what 'dating' entails. I'll see you soon, baby. Take car, boys!" She waved at them energetically.

Bobby and Castiel waved back, watching her get in her car and drive away. When Marcy was gone, Bobby glared at Castiel. "When I tell you to stay put-."

"I think you should marry her," Castiel said, casually, as if that was something you just say.

"What is this, a conspiracy?" Bobby asked. "Get inside - and don't hide them cookies."

"You mean the ones she made _for me_?" Castiel asked pointedly.

Bobby gave Castiel a scary look, causing him to flee into the house. Bobby followed after, but as soon as he was back inside, he saw Sam and Dean sit back down in their chairs, both smirking.

"We're not talkin' about this," Bobby warned them.

"Who was that, Bobby?" Dean asked.

"She seemed nice," Sam said, batting his eyelashes and tossing his hair back.

"Mind yer business," Bobby said, starting to get all flustered.

"Is she your special lady friend?" Dean asked.

"That was Marcy," Castiel said, opening the tupperware.

"Shut up, Cas," Bobby said.

Dean let out a little growl, " _Rrrr, Marrsaay!_  Is she your little snuggle bunny?"

Sam and Dean both laughed their asses off.

"They're having sex," Castiel said, "I've seen them."

Everyone looked at him, completely mortified. What the hell, Cas?

Castiel's eyes went big. "...I have to go to work," he said anxiously.

Bobby had to take a big, cleansing breath through his nose. Castiel went and got his big, insane gray parka from the coat rack and went to the back door. He and Bobby exchanged tense looks for a moment, then Castiel left.

There was an awkward silence. Sam started cleaning up the kitchen again.

"Okay, I gotta ask," Dean said. "What the hell's with you and Cas?"

"What?" Bobby asked flatly.

"Are you living with him?" Dean asked, as if just the idea of it was crazy.

"He lives with Garth," Bobby said in a funny, noncommittal tone. "He's just stayin' here for now."

"That's kinda worse," Sam said. "It's weird, though, right?"

"He's not weird," Bobby said defensively. "Not half as weird as either of you, so watch it."

"So it's not as creepy as it looks?" Dean asked.

The expression on Bobby's face said he didn't want to say.

"He doesn't bother me," Bobby said. "He pulls his weight, takes care of the house, buys groceries. It's kinda like livin' with an angry little butler."

Sam laughed.

"How is that not weird?" Dean asked.

"You've been dead for three years," Bobby said, "you don't get to lecture me on weird."


	20. Playing Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's like Operation, and Crowley always touches the sides.

THE PENTHOUSE - NOON

Things in the penthouse were basically how we left them, the jukebox was playing - Ella Fitzgerald singing some old show tune - and Balthazar and Crowley were still on the piano bench, halfway through a bottle of whisky. Crowley was trying to relax, but still seemed perturbed. Balthazar had noticed.

"They were off duty," Balthazar said, kind of out of no where. He put his glass back on the piano.

"They?" Crowley asked.

"The twins," Balthazar said. He took Crowley's glass from him and put it with the other. "Still, I don't know if they could've helped with the security breech."

"I'm not angry," Crowley said, though unconvincingly. "I'd tell you if I was."

"No, you wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't," Crowley admitted with a smirk.

"That's fine," Balthazar said bitterly. "You don't have to tell me anything."

There was something dark in his expression. His eyes began to glow an eerie blue and he put a hand on either side of Crowley's head, looking like he might crack it open. Crowley hardly reacted. He closed his eyes, seemed to nod off, but his lips were moving, like he was muttering something. When his eyes opened again, they were violet, and it was as if there was a light behind them. After about a minute, Balthazar let Crowley's head go, but had to catch him at his good shoulder to keep him from falling off the bench. Both of them were back to normal.

Crowley opened his eyes, startled. "What?" he asked, as if someone had said something.

"I asked if you were alright," Balthazar said. "I think you lost consciousness."

"I don't remember," Crowley said, looking surly, confused and a little panicked.

"Yes, well, you wouldn't remember that, would you?" Balthazar said blithely. "It's a catch 22. Maybe we should take a hiatus."

"We just came back from hiatus," Crowley said.

"Excuse me for not knowing what else to do," Balthazar said.

"I said I wasn't angry," Crowley said, still sounding angry.

Balthazar smiled. "I believe you," he said.

"And why are you suddenly pleasant?" Crowley asked, suspicious.

"I'm  _always_  pleasant," Balthazar said. "You're sweet, you know that?"

What? Crowley looked at the whisky bottle - no, Balthazar hadn't finished it by himself.

"You're a strange little man," Crowley said.

"You have no idea," Balthazar said. He poured them both a drink.

Crowley looked back over his shoulder at Balthazar. For a minute, he didn't know what to say.

"Can I be honest with you?" Crowley asked, in a tone that made it sound like he was going to say something awful.

" _Of course_!" Balthazar said gleefully, as if he couldn't wait to hear something awful.

"I'm beginning to think you didn't hire me for my typing skills," Crowley said.

The door to the apartment burst open. Dolly and Mog were dragging a bloodied man in blue coveralls into the room. They were followed by a few other henchmen: Shipley, Lydecker, and a big guy we haven't seen before. He was kind of malevolent looking - really tall and broad, built like a bouncer, with a mean smile and the kind of haircut one might unfairly associate with mental hospitals. He was dressed like a cowboy without the hat, and carried a red tin tool caddy.

Crowley grinned when he saw everyone enter and absentmindedly flicked a hand back, hitting Balthazar in the nose.

"Fix your face," Crowley said, and hopped to his feet like someone who hadn't just had a bullet pulled out of his back.

He opened the coffin table up. There was a bowl of skittles inside; he gave Balthazar a look and tossed him the bowl, then stood back as Dolly and Mog practically carried the guy over and dumped him into the coffin.

It was Samandriel.

"Good work, girls," Crowley said. "There'll be a sheet of stickers in your lunch tomorrow, promise. Where's the Colt?"

Dolly and Mog looked at each other, clueless.

"The gun?" Crowley asked.

"Nay, there weren't no gun," Mog said.

"Just a dork in a onesie," Dolly said.

" ** _He didn't shoot me with his finger!_** " Crowley roared. He was pretty steamed at first, but took a moment to collect himself. "Call the boys in band," he said nicely. "Tell them to get their snouts on this - the Colt has to be somewhere. And if you think anyone's nicked it, I want their thumbs in a box."

Dolly and Mog laughed evilly to themselves, but didn't move.

"What are you waiting for?" Crowley asked. "You'll get your treat when I get my gun."

"We wanna watch," Dolly said.

"Aye!" said Mog, in her inexplicably piratey way.

Crowley sighed. "Alright," he said, being gracious. "My suit's already ruined anyway. Butcher, bring me my instruments."

The big cowboy-looking dude, Butcher, came forward and set the tool caddy beside the coffin. Crowley knelt by Samandriel. He snapped his fingers and the jukebox started playing the Andrews Sisters' "Bei Mir Bistu Shein."

"You're a real dead-eye now, aren't you?" Crowley said to Samandriel, and flicked the name tag on his coveralls. " _Habib?_ " He shook his head. "After all we've meant to each other over the years..." He took a power cord out of the caddy and whipped it at Shipley. "You, plug me in."

It took Shipley a second to get what Crowley meant. He grabbed the cord and, when he found an outlet, he plugged in whatever it was.

Shipley went back to the others and whispered to Lydecker, "So what happens now?"

They looked back as they heard a high-pitched buzzing. Crowley had turned on the implement he had Shipley plug in. It was a delicate little craniotomy drill.

Lydecker's body language suggested he didn't wanna see this. "Time to play doctor," he said. "You're not squeamish, are you?".

"Me?" Shipley asked smugly. "Are you kidding? I might be fresh off the line, but I doubt this guy's gonna-. Oh, sweet baby Jesus!" Shipley turned away quickly, shielding his eyes as the sound of a grown man screaming for his life filled the room.

The other henchmen gave Shipley a derisive look.

Lydecker pat him on the shoulder. "New guy," he told them all.

After a while, Crowley turned the drill off. Samandriel was hysterical, as you'd imagine - his chest was cut open, his rib cage slightly exposed and two holes were drilled into one of his ribs, like perforations. Crowley's hand was covered in blood. He held the drill up to Samandriel's face.

"Clever, isn't it?" Crowley said. "Angel tools. Easiest things in the world to make, as it turns out. But from what I hear, you know all about that."

When Crowley said that, Samandriel's eyes flicked to Balthazar.

"That's right," Crowley said. "Taz blabbed. Now I know about all that stuff they did with the things.  _For shame_ , Habib, I thought you lot were supposed to all be one big, happy family, but it turns out... that the only  _real_  difference between Heaven and Hell, is the climate." He started sucking the blood off his fingers.

Samandriel panted, his voice breaking. "What do you want?" he asked.

" _Want_?" Crowley asked. "You've already put two bullets in me in less than a year. Right now, all I really  _want_  is to take my misery and resentment, fashion it into a shiv, and  **shove it up your ass**. Which I think would be good for both of us - _I'd_  get to turn my pain and degradation into something constructive, and  _you'd_  get to change your relationship status on facebook to, 'It's Complicated.' But right now, I what  _need_ , is to know where the other angels are hiding. I promise, it'll be quick for you all if you tell me. If not-."

He reached into Samandriel's wound and snapped the perforated rib out, causing him to scream in agony. The rib still had flesh on it. Dolly jumped up and down, waving, trying to get Crowley's attention. He turned his back on the henchmen and threw the rib over his shoulder like the bouquet at wedding. Dolly caught it, but Mog started fighting her for it. They struggled for a moment until Mog kneed Dolly in the stomach and she folded like a deckchair.


	21. Wuthering Heights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Balthazar's turn to play operation.

THE PENTHOUSE - NOON

Welcome back to The Torture of Samandriel, already in progress. Crowley was locking Samandriel into the coffin table's manacles - oh, hey, it has manacles... gross - and Balthazar watched the proceedings with a mixture of boredom and disgust. He snapped his fingers and the single on the jukebox changed to "Wuthering Heights" by Kate Bush.

"Have you been schtupping my jukebox?" Crowley asked with a sneer.

"I thought we were torturing," Balthazar said.

"Not  _me_ , you himbo!" Crowley barked. "Don't touch my torture playlist." He snapped again and the record switched back.

Balthazar got into his Skittles and started idly tapping keys on the piano as Crowley got a scalpel out.

"What rhymes with 'sex machine'?" Balthazar asked thoughtfully.

Crowley mulled it over a second and smiled. "Aging Queen?" he asked, then flinched as a handful of Skittles rained down on him. "Would you stop being playful for five minutes so I can cut the-."

"Arsenic and Old Lace is on tonight," Balthazar said.

That got Crowley's interest. "What time?" he asked.

"Six o'clock," Balthazar said.

"Are they playing it more than once?" Crowley asked.

"You only buy TV Guide when we're on the cover," Balthazar said. "Tisk."

"Well, this might take a while," Crowley said, then turned to Samandriel. "Unless... you wanna tell us right now?"

Samandriel glared at him, breathing heavily through flared nostrils: if he could have, he would've ripped Crowley's throat out.

Balthazar shook his head and put down the Skittles. "The trouble is, you're not used to torturing angels," he said grimly. " _I am_  - we have our spots. Let me work on him."

Butcher looked around, like he expected to find himself on Candid Camera. "You're... gonna torture the angel?" he asked, snickering. "Is that what you pi-."

Crowley cleared his throat loudly.

"Is that what you guys in Heaven do all day?" Butcher asked, with a somewhat facetious level of respect.

"Well, Breaking Bad wasn't on back then," Crowley said, "they had to make their own fun." He turned to Balthazar. "Are you serious?" he asked quietly.

"Send everyone out," Balthazar said seriously. "I don't want them to see this."

"You heard the man," Crowley said to his henchmen. "Chop-chop, stab-stab, I want every one of you weasels on the ground floor. Now!"

Everyone started heading out - Dolly was still recovering on the floor, so Shipley and Lydecker had to drag her out by her feet.

When all the henchmen were clear, Crowley turned to Balthazar and clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "Now, let's do some messed up-."

"You, too," Balthazar said, folding his arms resolutely. "Leave."

Crowley gawked. "Oh, don't even tease," he said. "There's no way I'm missing this. Come on, I've never seen an angel torture anyone. Not even on Cinemax."

"Exactly," Balthazar said. "I don't want you to see me do this. You'll lose all respect for me."

" _But I don't respect you now_ ," Crowley whined.

Balthazar started waving him out, like a fly from a kitchen. "Go on, now, shoo," he said.

Crowley started backing up. "This is such crap," he bitched. "I torture things in front of you all the time. Quid pro quo, Taz."

"Scoot."

Crowley tried to pull a sincere face. "If anything," he said softly, "I think it would bring us closer-."

Balthazar pointed at the door. "Out!"

Crowley let out a disappointed huff. What a pisser. He headed for the door, grumbling as he went, "All the other angels let their demons watch them torture..."

After a moderate amount of glaring and sulking, Crowley left the room. As soon as he had, Balthazar swept a hand through the air and the sliding glass wall slid shut, effectively locking off the room. He walked slowly over to Samandriel and knelt beside him, smiling.

"Hello, Smandy," Balthazar said.

"Brother," Samandriel said breathlessly, "get me out of here. Please, while there's still time."

"Is that what happens now?" Balthazar asked coldly.

"I came back for you," Samandriel, seeming genuinely confused. "We can leave here,  _together_."

"You son of a bitch," Balthazar said under his breath.

"Does Crowley have you captive here?" Samandriel asked. "Some spell? ...Or is what they're saying about you really true? Have you really gone insane?"

Balthazar couldn't help an empty, somewhat sad laugh. "It's nice to know I've given you all something fun to chat about," he said, "but you don't say when this ends.  **I'm** in control now."

"No, Balthazar," Samandriel said. "Enough is enough. You don't know what you're saying, you can't. To aid the King of Hell in his extermination of the angels? How could you work for-."

" **With** ," Balthazar said listlessly.

"What?" Samandriel asked.

"With," Balthazar reiterated. "I work  **with**  him, we're a team... Like Holmes and Watson-. If they were playing themselves on telly and were secretly killing massive amounts of whatever Watson is."

"I knew you once," Samandriel said, angry, but almost weeping. "You were a loyal sentry. To even  _listen_  to a demon, let alone the devil-. Can't you see how far you've fallen? How did this happen?"

Balthazar shrugged and smirked with some affection. "Well, I started to spank him, but it just sort of ended up like this."

"I never would've pegged you for a traitor," Samandriel said.

"Mm, that's what this whole thing's about to them, isn't it?" Balthazar said. "Which side of the line I'm on? Not that it matters, but I've done more good for humanity working with Crowley than I ever did thralled to Vampira."

"Naomi's dead," Samandriel said darkly.

" _You're welcome_ ," Balthazar said.

"Brother, you've been deceived," Samandriel said, a hint of a threat in his voice. "I know you're proud, that's always been your sin. But it's not too late to come home."

"And bring back all the weapons I took, is that it?" Balthazar asked indignantly. "I'm not proud, Samandriel, but I won't be a mindless weapon again."

That was it. Something in Samandriel snapped. "You selfish child," he said, giving Balthazar a withering look of contempt. "You don't care about your family at all anymore, do you? Your duty to our Father? We thought you were dead, Balthazar, we wept over you. And now you're hunting us, like some kind of monster. We're running from him, from both of you, hiding like animals while you're down here, laughing at us! Living... who knows what kind of life."

Ooh. That line. They both knew what it meant.

"And you're not even sorry," Samandriel went on through gritted teeth. "You think you're so much wiser now, so worldly. That you're making your own choices. You think you know his intentions, but he is The Beast. Believe me when I say, you have  _no idea_  what he's truly after."

"Oh, Smandy," Balthazar said, laughing cruelly. "How did you live so long being  _such a dumbass_?"

Balthazar's eyes began to glow again, and he put his hands on the sides of Samandriel's head. Samandriel's eye's glowed, too.

"What's happening?" Samandriel asked in a small voice. "Stop it... Please, stop."

"Oh,  _relax_ ," Balthazar drawled, "I'm just reading your mind. You're going to tell me where the angels are."

Samandriel's lips began to move. Balthazar focused, taking his time, looking determined to do whatever he was doing. But then his expression changed. He was aghast.

"You can't be serious," Balthazar said. He let Samandriel go and they went back to normal. "Oh, you bloody hypocrite."

Balthazar's angel blade slid down his sleeve. With rage in his eyes, he plunged the sword into Samandriel, who lit up. Grace shone from his every angel-crevice before guttering out like a light from a burnt out candle.

Balthazar stood and straightened himself up. With a wave of his hand, he opened the glass wall and went out to the hallway.

Crowley was leaning against the wall beside the elevators. "Give up yet?" he asked. He noticed Balthazar's sword had blood on it. "You  _didn't_..."

"The angels are in Adam-ondi-Ahman," Balthazar said.

"Adam-ondi-Ahman?" Crowley asked. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It's Cravensville," Balthazar said. "It's in Missouri."

Crowley stared at him for a moment, dumbstruck. "... ** _Son of a bitch!_** "


	22. Agenda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's an "Angel Whisperer?"

BOBBY'S PLACE - NOON

After watching all any of them could stand of Inferno, Dean picked up the laptop and set it on the coffee table in front of Sam.

"So," Dean said. "That was the freakiest thing I've ever seen."

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "Don't know how it could suck more, which probably means we're about to find out it does."

"Yep." Dean gestured to the laptop.

Sam gave him a mad look and hugged the rabbit. "What?" he asked, ticked.

"You're the Geek," Dean said, "now  _Squad_."

Sam made an angry little noise, put the rabbit down and picked up the laptop. "I don't even know what I'm looking for," he said.

"I dunno," Dean said. "Maybe they have something planned, like an agenda...?" He really didn't know, either.

Sam smirked. "Yeah, I'm sure they put that right-." He frowned at the screen.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Well,... there's a link on their website marked 'agenda,'" Sam said.

Sam and Dean looked at each other: it couldn't be that easy. Dean moved the rabbit aside so he could sit next to Sam on the couch, while Sam followed the link on the navigation that loaded a video player.

The video looked like it was a snippet from an interview. Crowley and Balthazar were in costume, sitting in folding chairs in front of a backdrop with the Inferno's fiery logo. An interviewer sat opposite them. She was young, blonde and bland - a poor man's Mary Hart.

"So," the interviewer began, "if you two are really who you say you are-."

"An angel and demon," Crowley said. "It's true."

"He's lying," Balthazar said joked.

"Why host a game show?" the interviewer asked.

"Well, obviously we have a sinister agenda," Balthazar said.

"Obviously," Crowley agreed. "A few years ago, I was looking to secure my position as King of Hell, and I was taking on partners. I needed an angel. They can go places and do things a demon can't."

"And I was the only angel-" Balthazar said.

"That we know of," Crowley corrected.

Balthazar continued, "- who'd ever tried his hand at the futures market, so to speak. It was a marriage of convenience."

"He was neutral," Crowley said. "That helped."

"Well, we both were," Balthazar said.

"I was already looking for something," Crowley said. "A long-lost something that would supply us with countless unclaimed souls. Though not of the most hygienic quality, I'll admit. It was a high-risk venture, but I'm a gambler by nature. It's part and parcel with dominant personalities."

"Oh, lord," Balthazar groaned. " **Anyway** , we'd been working on our little project for a few months, everything was just grim as pig's bollocks."

"You can't say that on camera," Crowley told him.

"And so we went down to my wine cellar and got smashed," Balthazar said.

" _He_  got smashed," Crowley said, pointing at Balthazar. "But we had a very long conversation about why earthly souls are so hard to come at. Angels have to answer prayers, crossroads demons have quotas. Even as King of Hell-."

"Are you king?" Balthazar asked facetiously. "You've never mentioned it."

" _Settle down_ ," Crowley said, trying to ignore that last remark. "I couldn't wait for the souls to come to me, I had to scout a prospective seller. And there's underlings, a pecking order. Like in Amway. It's all very limited and time consuming. Inside-the-box thinking."

"So I suggested we advertise, and the idea of starting 'Inferno' sort of evolved out of that," Balthazar said. "We bring them in with a good show, lay it all on the table and make sure everyone knows what they're getting into. Plus, when you're a celebrity, people just throw their souls at you. And  _other_  things."

"It's a very exciting concept," Crowley said fondly. "I don't know why no one's ever thought of it before."

"And the end game?" the interviewer asked.

"World domination," Crowley said. "And we have a few charities that we like to keep a priority as well."

"It's more like a 'world peace' gig, though," Balthazar said casually. "We've been working toward a compromise with Heaven and Hell."

The interviewer was visibly taken aback by that.

"We offered a cease-fire," Crowley said. "They didn't take it. Now we're in a sort of cold war with both sides, and we're hoping to get them to stand down."

"Well, good luck with that," the interviewer said, trying to laugh.

"Thank you," Crowley said, his demeanor becoming suddenly flirtatious. "We could use your help, if you're interested. Every soul counts."

The interviewer smiled nervously, feeling trolled. "I... think I'll pass," she said. "Sorry, guys."

"We tried," Balthazar said with a laugh.

"And in the end, isn't that what matters?" Crowley asked.

He and Balthazar smiled at each other: _we're bastards_.

"Exactly," the interviewer said, trying to get back into the spirit of things. "So, as natural enemies, would you say your partnership was rocky at the start? Was their friction between you two?"

"No, not at all," Balthazar said. "No friction, none. In fact, I'd say we had a sort of... lubricated chemistry."

Crowley shook his head all through Balthazar's answer. "There was a definite a rough patch at the beginning," he said. "Angels have a lot of prejudices-."

"Well earned," Balthazar said.

Crowley shrugged. "Fair enough, fair enough.  _Hypocritical_."

"Sure," Balthazar said with a conceding little nod.

"But in spite of themselves," Crowley went on, "they're very easily subjugated. It wasn't all that hard to break-."

" **Watch it** ," Balthazar warned.

"Bring... him around to my way of thinking," Crowley back-pedaled. "I'm the Angel Whisperer."

As Crowley spoke that last line, Balthazar rolled his eyes and made a subtle jerking motion with his fist.


	23. The Show that Never Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, my friends, to the show that never ends. I'm so ashamed.

BOBBY'S PLACE - NOON

Sam frowned at the laptop, slightly shocked. "So... Crowley and Balthazar want world peace," he said. "Okay. I know I'm gonna regret this the second it comes out of my mouth, but-."

" **No** ," Dean said. He got up and started pacing, really keyed up by the way the plot was thickening.

"Well, they're using their own names," Sam said, "telling everyone what they are. They have a permanent address."

"And they're not worried about, oh, say, the wrath of Heaven and hunters coming down on them?" Dean asked.

"They're really not," Sam said with quiet concern. He scrolled through one of the wiki pages dedicated to Inferno.

"Folks have tried," Bobby said. He came in from the kitchen carrying a cup of coffee and took the seat Dean vacated, making an old man noise as he did. "Hunters. Angels. Even demons, for some reason. Everybody's taken a shot at those two weasels, and nobody's lived to tell the tale. But over the past few years, somethin's been killing angels by the dozen. Three guesses on who the main suspects are."

"Oh, the fun just keeps on comin'," Dean bitched. "What I don't get is, how's Balthazar even working with Crowley in the first place? Maybe there's an 'Evil Dicks' category on Craigslist."

Sam gave him a puzzled look.

Dean grinned sheepishly, shook his head. "I don't even know what I just said."

"When we met Balthazar, he was buying souls," Sam said, going back to his research. "Maybe they crossed each other's territory or something?"

"Yeah..." Bobby started to say something, but didn't finish. He just scratched the rabbit's head and looked really guilty.

" **Bobby**?" Sam asked, suspitious.

"Alright, say something fast," Dean said. "And it better not start with 'I have always been a woman who arranges things'."

"Let's hold the attitude," Bobby said. "You remember how we needed the location of Death, and I had to pawn my soul to Crowley?"

That shut the boys up.

"Well," Bobby said, "it turns out the son of a bitch didn't feel like givin' it back. Cas got on the horn to every angel he knew for a favor, but Balthazar's the only one who answered. Not that we needed more. He showed up with a crappy old sling and took out Crowley's hellhound.  _With a rock_. Then he got out this screwy lookin' bag, said he was gonna drive the demon outta Crowley if he didn't give back my soul." Bobby smiled nostalgically. "It was... peachy." He shrugged. "Never woulda thought they'd run off and get hitched afterward."

"Yeah, well, I've seen weirder," Dean said sullenly.

Dean gestured to the laptop and Sam when back to his research. Dean continued to pace.

"Bobby, get out the Rolodex," Dean said, "'cause I think we're gonna have to call all the cars in on this one. Who's alive here, Rufus? Garth? Annie and Jody?"

"Hold on a minute," Bobby started, not liking where this was headed.

Dean was too worked up to notice. "We need to know what went wrong on the other hunts," he said. "We gotta... I don't know, we gotta stop these guys, before they start whatever screwed-up crap they've got in the works-. Frank! Do we still got Frank? The guy, not the critter."

"Frank's alive and kickin'," Bobby said, "but I think you and I are gonna have to have a little chat about some things."

"Get this," Sam said.

Bobby sighed. There'd be no talking to them now.

"Crowley and Balthazar have, like, regular human bios online," Sam said. "They're unofficial, but apparently they're passing as some Andy Kaufman-type comedians who don't break character. Had a few dozen hell-themed cooking videos go viral on YouTube before they made the jump to TV. Their names are supposed to be Roderick Spode and..." He rolled his eyes witheringly. "Hugh G. Balzac."

Dean chuckled, but got dirty looks for it. He cleared his throat. "So why'd Cas bail on us?"

"He has work," Bobby said.

Dean frowned. "What, like an  _actual job?_ " he asked. "I thought he was kidding. So what's he do, paper route? Squint at stuff for nickles?"

Bobby's eyes wandered. "Don't give him a hard time, " he said. "I mean it."

Dean gasped in open-mouthed, Victorian shock. "When have I ever?" he snarked.

Bobby sighed. "He's a librarian," he said, then added quickly, "and you're not gonna say anything to him about it."

Somehow, Dean's eyes started smirking before his mouth did. "He's a  _what,_  now?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So,... Sam's kinda librarian, or Dean's?


	24. Greek Chorus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those two guys talk about those other two guys. Neat!

THE PENTHOUSE - EVENING

The sad remains of Samandriel had long since been hauled from the living room of the apartment and the space scrubbed. The room was now full of demons and monsters, drinking and killing time, as Lloyd Price's cover of "Stagger Lee" boomed merrily from the jukebox. Lydecker seemed to be the center of everything, as he told some apparently hilarious story about the capture of an archangel. Inferno's house band, Outside Her Syndrome, were bothering anything remotely female in the room, and subsequently getting laughed at by Dolly and Mog, who were understandably having none of it. Butcher was drinking in the corner with a small, dark man. Neither of them looked happy.

Shipley sat on the piano bench, idly playing a few bars of an old Gershwin show tune. He didn't feel like mixing. When he'd finished his story, Lydecker made his way over to the piano and set his drink on it.

"Freddie, Freddie, Freddie," he said, jolly and winded. "I've been working on Moeko and Keiko, and they both like your New Guy mystique and that quiet, 'Calvin Klein' thing you do with the back of your head. Let's go."

"Where are the big bosses?" Shipley asked.

"Uh,... Balthazar's probably doing a celebratory orgy," Lydecker said, "and I think Crowley said something about being covered in heaven-goobs and having to burn his suit, so he's likely having a little funeral for it in his bathtub."

Just then, King came in pushing a mail cart, holding a clipboard in one hand. Everyone started whooping it up when they saw him.

"Simmer, people, simmer," he said loudly, and checked his board. "The total this week is eight thousand, that's up over four-hundred from last week. Good work everyone!"

There was some cheering and self-congratulations at that.

"Also, this week's winner is Dolly again, with a whopping seven-hundred!"

Dolly curtsied to a round of applause and whistling. They all started happily going through the mail. All but Shipley and Lydecker.

"What was that about?" Shipley asked.

"Hate mail," Lydecker said. "And death threats. Dolly always get the most because she's breaking up Crowlthazar."

"What in the hell is... Crall..."

"Crowlthazar," Lydecker said. "It's, like, the biggest 'ship in the fleet."

"I... don't follow," Shipley said.

"' _Ship_ ," Lydecker said, as if he was stupid for not knowing, "as in, relationship. Crowley's with Balthazar. Their friendship, their possible romance - will they, won't they? Have they? You haftaknow this if you're gonna work on Inferno."

Shipley looked a little twitchy. "Yeah, about that-."

"Ugh, god!" Lydecker started trying to scrape something of his foot. "It think I've still got sniper on my chelsea boot. That's three times this month!"

"Do you ever wonder about the angel?" Shipley asked, deep in thought.

"You mean Samandriel?" Lydecker asked, distracted. "Yeah, no, we... exploded him, so... not much to wonder about."

Shipley gave him a snotty sideways glance. "Not the dead one, Thinkenstein, the other one. Balthazar. You ever get the feeling he's... I dunno, hiding something?"

" _This_  is what you're doing instead of Keiko?" Lydecker asked. "Work day's over, we've already done our thinking, dude."

And yes, it was really weird to hear someone with a posh London accent use the word "dude." Unless, or course, you'd spent any amount of time with Lydecker.

"Besides," Lydecker went on, "if he's hiding anything, it's probably that he's gonna betray all the demons, and when that starts happening, Crowley'll just-." He pantomimed ripping Shipley's still-beating heart out and crushing it, complete with a raspberry sound effect thrown in. "Butcher and Legion have a pool going about when we'll hafta kill 'im."

He gave a salute to Butcher and the guy he was with, Legion. They saluted back grudgingly.

"Everybody knows the angel is probably gonna go crazy and try to kill us all," Lydecker said. "I mean, he's an angel. It's sort of their raison d'être."

"I think you might be wrong about that," Shipley said. "I think... Okay, I know I'm the greenhorn and everything-."

"I don't know what that means," Lydecker interrupted, sipping his drink. "Carry on."

"I know I'm new around here," Shipley began again - quietly, as though he didn't want anyone else to hear. "I'm gettin' a different read off these guys. And I feel like I'm the only one who's seein' this."

Lydecker picked up on his surreptitious vibe and sat next to him on the bench, being all hushed and serious with him. He even put his drink back down.

"What'd you think's  _really_  happening?" Lydecker whispered.

As soberly as anyone's ever said anything, Shipley answered, "I think Balthazar and Crowley have a thing for each other."

At that, Lydecker busted up laughing. Really,  _really_  laughing hard, he tried to brace himself on the piano and was smashing white keys in the process. Shipley looked around, worried. Lydecker was making  _an awful_   _lot_  of noise.

"It's not funny," Shipley whispered. "I think those two guys might be in love with each other."

That only seemed to make Lydecker laugh louder. "You're one of those bloody Crowlthazar people!" he wheezed. "Oh, god, your name's even Shipley!"

"Would you shut up?" Shipley whispered, punching Lydecker on the shoulder. "I don't 'ship' them, okay? I'm not even a hundred percent clear on what that means. Look, I'm just sayin', it seems like there's something going on here that no one's talkin' about. Maybe I'm wrong, but why is it so hard to believe? I mean,  _they could be_."

Having had himself a good giggle-fest, Lydecker sighed and caught his breath. "...Just glad I wasn't drinking when you said that," he whispered. "I get the read, dude, _I do_ , but that's just their way. Crowley likes to make people uncomfortable, and even in this day and age, the quickest way to do that is a dude with a dude. And Balthazar's flirty and intrusive, because he's a slut and that's just what we're like." He raised his glass proudly to that and took a drink.

"Yeah, I get all that," Shipley said, frustrated, "but it's not what I meant."

"I was here at the beginning," Lydecker said, "and I'm telling you, the angel can barely stand demons. Besides, even if he  _did_  fancy Crowley-." He'd started to chuckle and had to get it under control. He cleared his throat.  _"_ Even if he  _did_ , it'd be one way, wouldn't it? 'Cause demons... you know. We  _can't_."

That seemed to upset Shipley. "What are you saying?" he asked. "Demons can't fall in love? That's crazy."

"We don't have the gears for it," Lydecker said with a shrug.

"So, what," Shipley said, getting a little ticked, "you're saying... that _I_  couldn't meet somebody and fall in love?"

"Just stands to reason," Lydecker said. "No soul, no love."

"But... that's  _all we are_ ," Shipley said. "We're  _souls_. Yeah, broken ones, but... who's to say we can't come back from that? Right? If we can still feel all the hate and wrath, and despair we knew in life, and all the things that dragged us down into the pit, isn't it possible that we could still feel something that could lift us out again? That we could find something sincere, and... and pure, and be pure  _with it_?"

Lydecker stared at Shipley for a moment. "That was heavy," he finally said. "That's was really beautiful."

"Shut. Up." Shipley said.

"No, I really mean it," Lydecker said, smiling. "I like the idea - that demons can fall in love. It's  _fantastic_."

"Yeah, well, I'm just saying it's  _possible_ ," Shipley grumbled, and went back to playing his tune.

"Yeah, I know it is," Lydecker said. "'Cause if it  _wasn't_ , how d'you explain how in love  _you_  are with  _me_?"

Shipley shoved Lydecker off the bench... He kinda had that coming.


	25. Morning Side of The Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foreshadowing is a bitch.

THE PENTHOUSE - EVENING

Just off the living room, past the place where the sofa used to be, was a room with a warded door. Inside, it looking like something Hemingway would've decorated in a fit of anger - black lacquer-finished antique furniture from old British colonies, guns and hunting trophies mounted on the walls, and curios from all over the world. It was cluttered and had an air of the exotic, but on closer inspection, there was something inhuman about everything in the room. One could see the taxidermied remains of something monstrous, or a brass bowl of shrunken heads that look a little too real.

A giant four-poster bed took up the center of the room. There was an Egyptian-looking frieze around the room, painted with Enochian warding magic. A small, antique television sat opposite a leather recliner. Potted ferns and sheer curtains were stirred by the woven ceiling fan. The whole scene had an almost anachronistic feel as Smith's cover of "Baby It's You" played softly from a hidden hi-fi.

There were french doors behind the bed that looked out on the penthouse roof. They swung open and Balthazar stepped into the room. Looking decidedly less Kirk-like than usual, he wore a loose t-shirt and jeans, his feet were bare ad his hair was damp. Seeming worn and empty, he went to the door on the other side of the room.

"Are you still in there?" Balthazar hollered. "It's been hours - how many layers of skin were you planning on exfoliating?"

"I only need one," Crowley's voice called back from the other side of the door. "Why are you in my room?"

"My party's winding down," Balthazar grumbled. "You never want to say late at an orgy." He went back and dropped down in the recliner, exhausted.

Crowley came in, also looking leisurely and de-Sataned. Gray fleece warm-up suit and black socks - very disappointing. He looked pale and drained. But he was thoroughly exfoliated.

"You're in my chair, Taz," Crowley said, heading over to the rattan bar cart. He started cutting a lime.

"Where else is there for me to sit?" Balthazar asked. "I won't sit on the floor, my ass will get cold. And we already went over the rule about-." He gestured behind him.

"Bed's off limits," Crowley said. "Why are you really in here?"

"Well, we were going to watch Arsenic and Old Lace," Balthazar said.

"They still tearing it up in the living room?" Crowley asked, juicing the lime into highball glasses.

"Mm-hm, and I don't have a TV in my room. Because I'm not celibate." He had a broad grin waiting for the dirty look Crowley would undoubtedly shoot him. But he didn't even turn. "How's your shoulder?" Balthazar asked, a bit concerned.

"How'd it go with the Devil's Fire?" Crowley asked. He poured the rum and cola, brought over a couple of drinks and held one out. "All the angels in Nutville taken care of?"

Balthazar took his glass. "We nailed it," he said listlessly. "That's not all of them, but... we're go for phase two." He looked like he might say something else, but then took a long pull from his drink.

"Is  _that_  why you're in my room?" Crowley asked, taking a seat on the arm of the recliner.

Balthazar shook his head, but not at Crowley. "If you knew what they're really like up there," he said, trailing off. "It's frightening, it really is. We were supposed to be a family - or that's the propaganda."

Crowley shrugged. "At least when they destroy you in hell," he said, "they don't expect you for Christmas after."

"It's not the torture," Balthazar said. "Or the programming. It's the bald-faced lying. They say they love each other, that it's all for something. But if you knew what they had planned for me... That's not what home is."

"What's the line," Crowley said, "home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."

Balthazar smirked at him. Crowley smirked back. So much smirk.

"How's your shoulder?" Balthazar asked again.

"Better," Crowley said. "Lost a few pints of blood, but the wound's closed."

"You don't look better," Balthazar said. "Let me see."

Crowley scoffed. "If I was going to lie," he said, "why would it be about this?"

"Because you did the same thing the last time you were shot," Balthazar said. "Let me see your back."

Crowley stood up. "Get out of my chair."

Balthazar considered it for a moment. " _Eh_ , I like it here," he said. "Why don't you just sit on my lap?"

Crowley looked at Balthazar like he was amusingly psychotic. "What's with you lately?" he asked, grinning. "Is it pon farr or something? Maybe you  _should_  sit on the floor." He sipped his drink, with a pleasantly surprised expression.

"Oh, come on," Balthazar said, and seemed to be preparing himself. "I promise to shut up if you do, mon petit Mignon. After the day I've had, I need a night in and a squeeze."

"You've got an orgy locked in your room," Crowley said, snickering into his Cuba Libre. "Go squeeze  _them_."

" _Just a cuddle_ ," Balthazar said in the cajoling tone one uses with domestic animals. "What are you afraid of?"

"Hepatitis," Crowley said, chuckling under his breath. "Why don't you try triple-dog daring me?"

Balthazar sighed. "What kind of world order are we starting," he said, "when the Devil can't sit on God's lap?"

"You're  **not**  God," Crowley said, dead serious.

Balthazar grinned. "I'm sort of God," he said.

Crowley shook his head slowly. "No..."

"Deal with it," Balthazar said, and slapped his knee. "I'm God. Now come sit on daddy's lap."

"Alright, Zsa-Zsa." Crowley went to the drink cart, nabbed a glass jar of peanut M&m's and tossed it to Balthazar, who caught it in his free hand. "I don't trust you," Crowley said, but smiled all the same.

"You know," Balthazar said, "I think it was my blind conviction that you couldn't be  _less_  mature that makes this so depressing." He tossed the jar over his shoulder. Or he tried to, only to find it was stuck to his hand. He tried shaking it off, to no avil, then tried to put his drink on the floor and couldn't let go of it either. He let out a disgusted huff. "Oh, you... _rotten little bastard_."

"I'm on the mend," Crowley said, tickled by his own joke. "I don't need you pawing me."

Balthazar tried to look shocked and indignant at the accusation. Crowley gave him a look.

CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS  
( _Really?_ )

BALTHAZAR'S EYEBROWS  
(Yes? Oh, who am I kidding? I'm a pervert, but you still owe me a lap-dance.)

CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS  
(This counts as your birthday present.)

Crowley left his drink on the cart, went to the recliner and lowered himself onto Balthazar's lap, face pinched with pain from putting weight on his arms. He drew a sharp breath in through his teeth.

Balthazar shook the M&m's in protest. "Can't see," he said seriously - or as seriously as you can with a jar of candy stuck your hand.

Crowley unzipped the his jacket and hiked it so his collar dropped in back and Balthazar could see his gunshot wound. The dressing on the wound was gone, but the small grouping of staples remained. The affected area was scabby and the surrounding flesh was horribly bruised.

"Dear God," Balthazar whispered breathlessly.

"What?"

"Your tattoos are  **gorgeous** ," Balthazar said.

Crowley made a move to get up, but Balthazar put his jar-arm around him.

"Too late," Balthazar said happily.

"It was a mistake not getting you fixed," Crowley said, trying his damnedest not to grin. "So how bad is it back there?"

"Your fine," Balthazar said dismissively. "Just lost a few pints of blood. The wound's closed."

Crowley gave Balthazar a glare before violently ripping the jar out of his hand. And you could  _hear_  it rip. Balthazar looked for a moment like he might scream, but nothing came out of his mouth but a faint gasp. Crowley zipped his jacket back up, looking very pleased with himself. He turned and resituated himself so that Balthazar could see past him, snapped his fingers at the TV and turned it on, while simultaneously turning off the hi-fi. He opened the jar and offered some candy to Balthazar, who looked conflicted, his hand still somewhat raw.

"Want to smack," Balthazar said. "Also want candy... What to do?" He gestured with his glass at the cart and it rolled over until it was close enough for him to put his drink down. It didn't give him any trouble this time.

Balthazar took the jar, set it down and - now that he had both hands free - put his arms around Crowley's shoulders and gave him a good squeeze.

"Careful!" Crowley hissed, eyes wide.

"Whoops," Balthazar said, and slipped his arms around Crowley's waist.

Crowley had to catch his breath - this was the wrong time for a bear hug. "You know, the Lambada is forbidden?" he snarked. "Are you having a post-fratricidal crisis, or are we in a celebratory frolic? Because this all feels a bit new for my tastes."

"What were we doing four years ago?" Balthazar asked, nestling into Crowley gently.

Crowley thought about it and smiled sadly. "Hiding. We were still at war."

"And who did we have on our respective sides then?"

He didn't have to answer that. Four years ago, they were both alone, hunted by their own kind, facing down a fate worse than death. And that was somehow long over. This was one of those rare moment, when neither of them could manage or justify insincerity. Gratitude and relief were written on their faces, and not arguably or subtly. All this had meant more than anything they saw in each other. It was dawn for both of them. No more fighting. No backs against the wall. The war was over. It wasn't happiness, but it was a high note, years - or perhaps centuries - in the making. Pure and powerful. One could all but hear ethereal music swelling from the empyrean.

Actually, it was coming from the TV, and it was a commercial for "Phantom" at a theater in Branson. But it was still wicked appropriate.

Crowley leaned back, rested his head against Balthazar's. Commercial ended. Moment over. Now they were just watching TV.

"So... Karloff's in this?" Balthazar asked, picking the candy jar up again.

"Raymond Massey," Crowley said, grabbing a handful of M&m's. "Karloff was in the play. They didn't do a good job translating all the meta references."

"Sorry," Balthazar said, "I'm completely lost." He shoveled a handful of candy into his mouth.

"Well, the play was a critique on plays," Crowley explained. He pointed an M&m at Carry Grant. "See that dapper bastard? He's familiar with all the tropes of a horror story, but has no idea he's in one." He ate a few candies and shook his head. "Listen to him, he's headed for disaster and he's not even paying attention. Just complaining about some fictional character doing the exact same thing."

"Makes my head hurt," Balthazar said, grimacing. "This doesn't end grisly for the love birds, does it?"

 _"Not telling_ ," Crowley said, grinning.

Balthazar shuddered. "I hate that," he said. "It's just a story, you know? Why hurt us?"

"To make. The audience.  _Give a damn_ ," Crowley said measuredly. "To get them invested."

"Well, if you already care, it's torture," Balthazar said. "Why can't they just make a romance genre without the conflict? Where the couple gets together and then just love each other?"

"They do," Crowley said. "It's called 'pornography'."


	26. No Joy in Nutville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss me?

BOBBY'S PLACE - SAME TIME

Quiet thunder. An old cassette tape of "In Between Dances" played on the kitchen radio. Sam, Dean and Bobby sat around the table, playing cards and using pumpkin cookies for chips. The boys were having beers and Bobby had a tall mug of fancy k-cup coffee. They weren't talking and the tension was cowpie-thick. Suddenly, ELO's "The Way Life's Meant to Be" started playing. Sam jumped and instinctively got out his phone to answer it, but paused.

Who in this timeline had his number?

He and Dean frowned at each other and Sam looked at the caller: unknown. Sam answered it, but before he could even say hello, whatever he was hearing stopped him. After a moment, he hung up.

"Who the hell was that?" Dean asked.

"I dunno," Sam said, looking wigged. "There wasn't a voice, just... something that sounded like... rope breaking."

They both gave Sam's phone stink-eye before he put it away. Yeah, the tension was cut.

Dean cleared his throat, upset. Wanting to change the subject. "So, uh... what happened to the junkers?" he asked.

"Long story," Bobby said. He dealt everyone two cards.

"Can we hear it?" Dean asked. "Or is it like a dog whistle?"

"I sold 'em," Bobby said.

"Doesn't sound like a long story," Sam said. "You don't have the junkers anymore, then what do you do for money?"

"Yeah, what's keeping Little Frank in pellets?" Dean asked with a smirk.

Bobby sighed. "I fix up old cars now. Turns out I got a talent for it."

Sam and Dean both looked playfully pissed at that.

"And who was it who told you that?" Dean asked, in a tone that suggested he and Sam had. They both chuckled at that.

Bobby laughed, too, inspite of the surly, edgy thing he was trying to keep up. "Well, Cas got a job on the other side of town, and you know the bus doesn't really make it to my side of the tracks."

"I told you," Sam said. There was a note of old argument in his voice. Like 'junior high school' old.

"I ain't a chauffeur," Bobby said. "He needed a car. I wasn't about to buy him one, and you know I don't like anyone touchin' the Chevelle. So, I pulled that old Sky Rocket off the good pile to fix up."

"That mob car?" Sam asked incredulously, laughing. "The one with the bullet holes?"

"And  _wire wheels_ ," Bobby said defensively.

Dean was scandalized. "That thing had a 455 block under the hood," he said. "You were really gonna waste that kinda fire on a librarian?"

"Hey." Bobby gave Dean a warning look that meant business. "What'd I say about that?"

It was becoming abundantly clear to the boys: this timeline's Bobby didn't like anyone making fun of Castiel.

Dean cleared his throat, not wanting the wrath of Bobby Singer on his head. His eyes went to his cards, so as to not look too back-downy. "So," he said quietly, "you fixed up the car for Cas?"

Sam tried not to smirk the smirk of awful little brothers.

"Yeah, I got her lookin' real good," Bobby went on, triumphant in the knowledge that he could still be scary when he wanted to. "Baby blue; flawless chrome; bone interior. Prettiest car I'd ever seen when I was awake. I knew he'd love 'er... So I took her into town to get new plates, but when I stopped for gas, the girl in line behind me offered me twice what the thing was worth. Which was about five times parts and labor."

"And you told her no," Sam said. "Because you fixed the car up for Cas?"

Sam and Dean both gave Bobby a judgy look: busted.

"Well, he hadn't seen it yet!" Bobby said defensively. "And I could get him a new  _house_  for what she paid me."

"Looks like you did," Dean said. "You got the place fixed up real nice. New guest room, new stairs, and I ain't even seen the second floor. You painted out there?"

"I didn't paint," Bobby said, "Cas did."

Still amused, Sam frowned. "Why'd Cas paint the house?"

Bobby looked at his cards carelessly, and said in a dark voice, " **He**  knows why." Bobby threw down his cards, realizing they forgot to bet. "Business is good. Right now I got more money than I can keep dry."

Sam looked at his cards. The situation was so surreal, he couldn't even remember if they were playing poker. "You guys seem like you're... doing good."

"So why didn't you show at Stull?" Dean asked.

" _Dean_ ," Sam started to say.

Bobby held a hand up. "It's fine, Sam," he said.

Heavy moment. It wasn't a time Bobby liked to reminisce about. Finally, he looked at Dean.

"Someone put bleach in my oil pan," Bobby said pointedly.

They could follow Bobby's eyes. Dean didn't like the looks he was getting.

"You think it was  _me_?" Dean asked.

"Wasn't it you?!" Bobby hollered.

"No!"

But there was a weird look in Dean's eyes. Sam knew what it meant. Dean was holding something back, and Sam stared at him until he coughed it up.

"Okay," Dean admitted, "I messed with the reservoir tank."

"What gives you the right?!" Bobby shouted. "The van damn near blew up on us! You  **that**  determined to bench me? Because of you, we never made it!"

"You weren't  _supposed_  to make it!" Dean yelled. "It wasn't your fight, you and Cas only went there to die! And in our world - the  **real**  one - you two made it anyway! Okay, so I syphoned your coolant! You had a whole jug in the back, I only wanted to slow you down. But that's it, I didn't mess with the oil pan! You know... I mean, yeah, I  _almost_  did. I didn't need you guys following me. It was fifty-fifty, so I..."

"Flipped a coin?" Sam asked. He'd put it together. "Crowley was right."

Dean looked horrified. "Dude,  _no_ ," he said.

"Dude,  _yes_ ," Sam said. "Your coin-flip... was the point where the timelines split. Dean, you're-."

" **Don't**  say it," Dean warned.

"You're the friggin' Time Crotch!"

The back door flew open. Castiel hussled into the kitchen looking harried, dropped his keys on the counter and picked up the radio. "Have you been listening to the news?" he asked everyone.

Blank stares.

"What happened?" Dean asked.

It took Castiel a second of tuning to realize a tape had been playing. He stopped it. "A severe electrical storm hit a field in Northwest Missouri. Lightning killed seventy people."

Bobby looked anxious. Sam and Dean were still blank - horrible news, but what... did it have to do with them? After a second, Dean had to speak his mind, tact be damned.

"What the hell were seventy people doing standing in a field?"

"They weren't standing," Castiel said importantly. "They were hiding."

"Angels," Bobby said. "They fried another batch of angels."


	27. Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Balthazar play a little game.

THE PENTHOUSE - EVENING

Late in the day at old Heathcliff Studios. Parties all over the highrise where in full swing. It seemed like there was only one peaceful place in the building, and that was Crowley's room. The TV was on mute and Nina Simone's "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood" played quietly on the hifi. There were empty liquor bottles scattered around the armchair, and Crowley and Balthazar had resorted to drinking vermouth and cola. Crowley was still on Balthazar's lap and probably would've bitten anyone who tried to move him. He was near the end of a drunken rant:

"...I've even started playing video games," Crowley said, "that's how bored I am. And I end up doing the same thing in them that I do out here: I'm just grinding."

Balthazar snickered. "Grinding?" he asked. "What kind of video games are you playing?"

"It means when you do the same thing over and over," Crowley explained, "for money or experience. Slaying wild boars in the forest or some wank like that, to level up. You do it and you do it, and then one day, you look up and wonder where your life went. I'm the rat in the Skinner box pulling the lever. Killing pigs and waiting for the coins to drop."

"Silly prince of darkness," Balthazar said, but then started snickering again - he was just drunk enough to think 'prince of darkness' was funny. "You're waiting for the best part, but waiting is the best part."

Crowley frowned. "Are you talking about tantric pig-slaying? Because it's overrated."

"What I'm talking about is this: nothing in life feels as amazing as knowing something good is about to happen. The popcorn never tastes as good as it smells. Disneyland isn't half as fun as spotting the Matterhorn from the highway. It's the most incredible feeling in the universe. The trick is, dragging it out."

Crowley listened a moment, then started laughing his ass off.

"What's funny?" Balthazar asked.

"Basically?" Crowley asked. "You just said that becoming the co-ruler of an unequivocal global empire isn't going to feel as good as sitting here with me, right now, skunk as a drunk and talking about nothing."

"...Did I really say that?" Balthazar asked. "I don't think I said that."

"No, you did," Crowley said, giving Balthazar a joking hug, "just a bit. But no worries, Taz, I heart you, too. In fact..." Crowley ran his hand over Balthazar's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. He whispered in his ear, "I'm in the mood to play agame. We could play 'Crossroads'."

Balthazar pried Crowley's hand off. "You're drunk."

"That's how you play," Crowley said. He kept at it, nuzzling Balthazar, nibbling his ear. "I'll give you a head start."

Balthazar nudged Crowley off him, not unkindly. "I'm not doing anything with you when you're drunk that you wouldn't do sober."

Crowley sighed with frustration. But he was too sloshed to be all that disappointed. "Why do you have to be such a prude when you're hammered?"

"Why can't you be more of a slut when you're sober?" Balthazar asked. His resolve was waning. "I will take a gropey snuggle, though. To fortify myself against family issues."

Crowley made a face, disgusted. "What is it with you and snuggling?" he asked. "I don't snuggle, that counts as something I wouldn't do sober. You're a bloody sky warrior, and I'm the Devil, we're not the cuddly sort. Bad for the image."

"How are we not cuddly?" Balthazar asked, taking both their drinks and setting them on the cart. "We cuddle people all the time. We cuddle fans, sponsors - we cuddled Tom Bergeron in that christmas special."

The horrifying realization sank in for Crowley. "Oh, bollocks. We  _are_ cuddly... When did this happen?"

"Photoshoots," Balthazar said, his voice full of regret. "Everyone sells out for a wind machine." He gathered Crowley up in his arms and stood up, very wobbly. He did his best to carry Crowley to his bed.

"You know," Crowley said, "for someone who doesn't want the game, you certainly know how to play."

"Better you pass out in bed than on the floor," Balthazar said.

When Balthazar got to the bed, he collapsed onto it, taking Crowley with him. For a minute, they laid beside each other, waiting out the dizziness. Balthazar's face was smooshed against the duvet.

"Just need the room to stop spinning," Balthazar said, "then I'll be sip sape. Shape tape... Grape Ape."

"What you get for drinking all day," Crowley said, chuckling under his breath. "That's neat how you do that."

"I know," Balthazar said, "I've got a liver the size of a coconut."

Crowley laughed. "Not that," he said. "You take care of me. Nobody else does that. Why do you do that?"

"I dunno," Balthazar said, really thinking about it. But it wasn't easy, his head was swimming. "I think... well, it makes me feel... you know, good. Strong."

"You  **are**  strong," Crowley told him. Alright, it was a little cajoling.

Balthazar shook his head sadly, "No, I  _play_  strong. You do all the work, you take all the hits. You fix everything. And I just... spend money and have parties... Marry Kardashians. I should've been with you today. I could've protected you. Instead of being holed up here, necking with security."

"The twins are very neckable," Crowley said. "You skipped  _one_  meeting-."

"And you could've been killed," Balthazar said, cutting Crowley off. "Don't try to put this into context, you'll only make my point for me."

Crowley giggled at the seriousness. "Aww, you angels take things so hard," he said. "We got the sniper, right? Maybe we'll even find the Colt. Hey. I'm not your job, Taz. I can take care of myself."

"That's not the point," Balthazar said, still feeling sorry for himself. Wallowing majestically. "I still should've been there. You've always been the strong one."

"Not always." Crowley put his hand on Balthazar's cheek clumsily.

They looked at each other for a moment, very intimate, their faces inches apart.

 _"If I you could have one wish,"_  Crowley whispered, _"what would it be?"_

And that was it, Balthazar's resolve was gone. He pulled Crowley into his arms. Into a slow, tender kiss, full of longing. Crowley responded, deeply, passionately. And when it ended, they lingered close, refusing to break apart.

"You skipped a step," Crowley said breathlessly.

"I think it shows initiative," Balthazar said.

"Cheater."


	28. Tapping Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I can't help myself. More Smoochies, enjoy!

THE PENTHOUSE - EVENING

Picking up where we left off, Crowley and Balthazar continued their smoochies. To them, it was a steamy, epic make-out session, but from the outside, it was light-headed, clumsy drunks pawing weakly at each other for sleepy kisses. Cute, but hardly the stuff of music videos.

"Do I stay?" Balthazar asked, grinning between kisses. "I feel like staying."

Crowley smiled, nuzzling in blissfully. "Mmm, yeah...  _No!_ " His eyes snapped wide and he fought to get upright on his knees. "We can't wake up together."

"Mm?" Balthazar grunted, but began getting up with him. "Right, no, you're right. We can't. That would imply naughty."

Crowley braced himself on Balthazar. "We have to think about Sober Us," Crowley said, doing his damnedest to wake up. But the heat between them was building. "Sober Us... would be cross."

"Well, Sober  _You_ ," Balthazar said with a conceding nod, "but when Sober You's in a fit, he makes it bad for everybody." He took Crowley's face in both hands and looked him in the eyes, super serious. "We're friends. Just friends. Just two good, friendly friends, who work and conquer the planet together, enjoying their unchecked power and celebrity and can I nibble your neck?"

Crowley glared at him. "No. Well,... real quick."

Balthazar sunk down, breathlessly kissing and biting Crowley's neck like it was a contest. Crowley gasped and let his head loll to the side, one hand clutching at the back of Balthazar's shirt, the other raking fingers up through the back his hair. He got a handful of hair, keeping Balthazar's head where it was.

"We're  **such**  friends right now," Crowley panted.

"Quicker?" Balthazar asked in a growly voice.

"Slower," Crowley said. "Stay with me. Stay 'til I'm out."

Balthazar sobbed a fake sob. "Don't pass out on me again, Mignon," he whined. "You never remember."

"I will this time," Crowley said, petting Balthazar's head reassuringly, "just stay with me."

He kissed Balthazar's forehead. Balthazar pointed to his cheek and Crowley kissed him there, too. They went on like that for a minute, Balthazar pointing to various spots on his face and neck, and Crowley kissing them.

"You'll remember how good this feels?" Balthazar asked, sounding a little evil. "To let that Hell baggage go and just have at it? Will you remember how much you love me?" He sat back, cross-legged, pulling Crowley with him.

Crowley responded by wrapping his legs around Balthazar's hips. "Who says I love you?" he asked, smirking.

"No one," Balthazar said, "I can read minds."

"Oh, can you?" Crowley rested his head against Balthazar's, very amused. "That's handy."

"Mm-hmm. Remember all those souls you loaned me for our first deal? And how I didn't seem any mightier for them? Well, it turns out my powers increased laterally. I can be inside anyone's thoughts. That's how I found out where the angels were, how I kept us from getting canceled back in season one - you'd be surprised. I've been reading your mind for three years now. I could even tell you the exact moment you fell in love with me. Isn't that awful?"

After a moment, Crowley's smirk faded at Balthazar's words sunk in. Frowning, his eyes slowly widened, lips pursed. He looked like he might've strangled Balthazar... for a few seconds. Then he busted up laughing. Balthazar laughed with him. The whole thing was so absurd.

"Let me guess," Crowley said, "halftime show?"

"Raphael," Balthazar said.

"That early?" Crowley couldn't help a chuckle at that. "You must've been wearing your deepest of v-necks. And what about Taz, when did you fall for me?"

Something sincere crept into Balthazar's smile. "The wine cellar," he said.

Crowley squinted at Balthazar incredulously. "Three months in?"

"Two," Balthazar said. "Couldn't be helped."

Crowley hugged Balthazar, chin on his shoulder. Drunk and slumped, humming with satisfaction.

"I win," Crowley sighed. "You fell first, I win a pony. So you like me best when I'm hammered? You're not alone."

"Well, you're more fun this way," Balthazar said. "Less prickly." And then he had a giggle, because he was drunk enough to think 'prickly' was funny. "Getting you squiffy was the only way to get to know you. Well, before I could, you know, pop your head open and take a peek. It was so bizarre, though. The only one who understood what I was going through was the Devil. There's an eye-opener. Everything you said... About wanting the fighting to stop. And all the pressure on you to be this perfect, heartless machine. Never feeling safe. Losing all your friends. Being the only one who..."

He was getting a bit choked up now, and hugged Crowley tighter as he rambled. Yes, it was the maudlin monologue portion of the evening. That's what you get when angels start drinking at breakfast.

"Being alone," Balthazar said. "Cut off from everyone and everything. I felt it. I felt it all so bastardly. I tried to just chew it - angels are supposed to be tough. But I was terrified." He stroked Crowley's hair. "The very idea, that someone as clever as you was just as lost as I was. And you needed me. Me. I wasn't just some goon you brought on for the heavy-lifting. I'd never had that before." He kissed Crowley's earlobe. "The way we fit together, it was destiny. And -  _oh, lord_  - normally I can't stomach that stuff. But how many things had to break just the right way for you to find me?"

Balthazar pulled back from the hug to look in Crowley's eyes. "When I think of how close we came to missing-." But Crowley had passed out quite a while ago, a small smile lingering. Balthazar shook him a bit, but he was out cold. "You bitch."

He groaned a whiny, little groan and let Crowley sag back onto the bed. It took a moment for Balthazar to untangle himself, but he managed. He rolled Crowley onto his side for safer night-vomiting.

"You're so much cuter when you're unconscious," Balthazar whispered and kissed his jaw. "Don't forget this time." He gave Crowley a parting swat and shuffled for the door, bracing himself on furniture as he went.

When he opened the door, Balthazar found himself face-to-face with Shipley and Lydecker, both looking thoroughly annoyed.

"What's phase two?" Shipley asked.


	29. The Tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I didn't mean to abandon you guys. But aside from all the IRL things that kept me from writing, this chapter was a bear. The Tempest, indeed. When you read it, I think you'll understand. Hope you like it.
> 
> Happiest of Holidays,  
> Laota French

BOBBY'S PLACE - LATE NIGHT

Sam, Dean and Bobby still sat around the kitchen table, only now they were hard at work. Sam was pouring over an old gideon bible. Bobby was on his laptop, going through a shoebox of CDs (so that's where his books went!). Dean had Bobby's rolodex, smart phone, note pad and a pile of post-its, trying to make a call list of everyone they wanted to bring in on the hunt. Johnny Cash's "A Satisfied Mind" played on the radio.

"This thing reads like stereo instructions," Bobby grumbled. "I know a seer in Portsmouth. Don't know what time it is over there, maybe we can catch her awake. Be a damn sight better'n squinting at tiny type all night."

"Seems like Smitty's old lady saw all this coming," Dean said. "It's worth a look."

Sam shook his head - why couldn't Bobby get a large-print bible? He awkwardly read a passage allowed, "'And he exerciseth all the power of the first beast before him, and causeth the earth and them which dwell therein to worship the first beast, whose deadly wound was healed.' Bad guys and teamwork, right?"

"Yeah, the Beast," Dean said. "That's what Smitty called Crowley. I mean, I think? I have trouble holding my breath where he likes to swim."

"It says the power was given unto him to continue forty and two months," Sam said. "How long has Inferno been on the air?"

"Three years," Bobby said. "But you two've been dead for three and a half. That's about forty-two months."

Castiel, who had been upstairs, came back to the kitchen with a large binder.

"I've been recording their progress," he said. He opened the binder to pages of clippings he'd made, mostly of bizarre astronomic storms. The first one, however, was a TV Guide footnote for a WTF moment. "They called for a truce between Heaven and Hell. A formal request."

"I thought that was a joke," Dean said.

"No," Bobby said. "But it sounded like one. They did it as a bit on their first show."

"No one took them seriously," Castiel said. "Not even demons. When the angels ignored them, they began attacking. They've acquired a weapon with the power to kill angels remotely. No heavenly weapon could do this kind of damage, at least not any I've ever heard of. They used it to rain destruction on Heaven." He flipped through the storm clippings, with blurry pics of something blue and grace-like breaking the atmosphere, lighting up storm clouds. "But the attacks were blind - random. They either didn't care if they hit anything, or had no way of locating targets. It was like they... just wanted to prove they could. Many angels fled, mostly to earth. It seemed like this was the safest place."

"They wanted to take over the planet," Bobby chimed in. "Why burn the haystack for a few needles?"

"We thought they had no way of tracking us once we were warded," Castiel said. "No one saw this coming." He turned to a printout from the show's website. "Through Inferno, they started an online campaign, offering prizes to any fans who could send in photos of enochian warding magic."

"Crowdsourcing a hunt like this," Bobby said. "It can't have been long before they found some poor schmucks who slipped up, painted a window with sigils. Probably tortured information out of anyone they nabbed. All for a lousy t-shirt."

"What about Raphael?" Sam asked. "Their death-ray's big enough to take out an arcangel?"

"Raphael tried to Rambo 'em a few years back," Bobby said. "And they're still alive. That's all we know."

"So,... not getting in Angel Radio anymore?" Dean asked.

Castiel shook his head, visibly troubled by the question. "I... had my fractal transducer removed," he answered quietly.

"Like ya do," Dean said sarcastically. "So what the hell is that?"

"Every angel who takes a vessel builds internal framework," Castiel explained. "This includes a clustered, fractal antenna," he put a hand to his temple, "tuned to frequency of angels, but capable of using other objects and angels like..."

"Cellphone towers?" Sam offered.

Castiel sighed and took a seat at the table between Sam and Bobby. "Basically," he said. "When the angel killings began, our frequency was flooded with the sounds of angels dying gruesome deaths. And without my powers, I couldn't shut it off."

Sam and Dean grimaced in sympathy.

"So you ripped out your antenna?" Dean asked, sorry he'd ever brought up the subject.

"I had... help," Castiel said. "From Balthazar."

"Again?" Sam said. "Wow, you guys really kept in touch."

"The sound was maddening," Castiel said. "And after a few weeks, it became crippling. I called out to the other angels, but Balthazar was the only one who answered. Now I wonder if his help wasn't a machination. It cut me off from Heaven once and for all. All my intel from that point on is... guesswork."

"Good guesswork," Sam said, flipping through the binder.

Casually, Castiel drew Sam's coffee cup to his side of the table. No big deal, maybe he thought it was his? Bobby cleared his throat and Castiel quickly set it back. Okay, maybe he didn't think it was his.

"Thought you didn't drink coffee," Bobby said.

"I don't drink coffee," Castiel said, drumming his fingers on the table. He looked guilty, like a kid caught sneaking something. So it was kinda obvious.

Due to some very funny incident Bobby was nice enough to keep to himself, Castiel's caffeine privileges were revoked.

"Anybody want chili?" Bobby asked, getting up and heading for the fridge to fetch out some iced tea.

Castiel look relieved at the change in subjects. Sam and Dean, who were in full research mode and didn't notice the domestic tension, were suddenly all ears.

"You still got that giant thing of it in the freezer?" Dean asked, laughing.

"Three," Castiel said, smiling a little smile. "It's almost a monthly occurrence. Bobby makes a twelve-quart stock pot of chili, has one bowl of it and says-."

"'But I made it fer you!'" Sam and Dean both said, in the sweet, manipulative little 'Bobby's lying about chili' voice.

The boys all had a good laugh at that. Bobby set a tumbler of iced tea in front of Castiel.

"Everyone who laughed gets vegan chili," Bobby said.

Despite the threat, or possibly because of it, Sam couldn't keep a straight face. "That five-alarm stuff used to keep me up all night."

"I thought it was that 'Pennywise in the bathroom' dream that kept you up," Dean said, smirking and being a glorious dick. "One commercial for IT comes on, and Bobby had to talk him down every night."

"Commercial my ass," Sam said. "You kept putting it on! We both had nightmares-."

"I never had nightmares," Dean said, trying to make his voice carry over Sam's. "Dude, I never had nightmares."

"It got so bad," Sam said, talking over Dean, "Bobby had to read me Hamlet every night, just to-."

Suddenly, smash! Castiel had crushed the tumbler he was holding. Iced tea, glass and a little blood was going everywhere.

"Jesus, Cas!" Dean shouted, jumping up from the table. "What happened?"

Castiel didn't answer. Bobby got a dish towel and wrapped it around Castiel's hand. Sam saved the laptop (because of course he did - priorities) and Castiel's binder.

Sam and Dean looked all freaked out. Worried. Crushing glasses with your bare hands isn't something you do when everything's fine, right? But for some reason, Bobby and Castiel weren't fazed.

"It's a nick," Bobby said, "he'll be fine. I'll clean the mess up later, you boys... go watch some cable."

Bobby led Cas off; they were headed upstairs.

"What was that about?" Sam whispered, wigged.

"I dunno," Dean said quietly. He watched them go, anxious. This whole world wasn't right. "Do you get the feeling somethin'... funny's going on with them?"

"Honestly?" Sam said. "I think they're just a bad influence on each other."

"So you're not worried?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, I'm worried," Sam said. "But it kinda doesn't feel like it's our business."

"How is it not?" Dean asked. "This is Cas and Bobby. They're our friends, right?"

"Yeah, and we've also totally gate-crashed their lives," Sam said. "How would you feel? You're on your own, living your own life for years, and then suddenly, your past just shows up and derails-."

Sam clammed up when he noticed Dean was giving him a epically pointed look: he just described the effing Pilot of Supernatural, and not in the most flattering language.

"Did Bobby say cable?" Sam asked.

Smooth.

UPSTAIRS - A BIT LATER

In the upstairs bathroom, Bobby carefully rinsed the blood and miscellaneous gross off Castiel's hand. He had a few thin cuts on his palm and one on his thumb, but that was about it.

"You wanna talk about it?" Bobby asked, drying Castiel's hand with a fresh towel.

"Nothing to talk about," Castiel said, ticked and tense, avoiding eye-contact.

"Alright. Then you feel like workin' on The Tempest some more?"

"Why don't you just read it with Sam," Castiel said, horribly bitter and pointed.

Bobby rolled his eyes, but with the nervous air of a man who just realized he screwed up. He broke out the antibiotic ointment.

"Just relax," Bobby said. "They're back from the dead, they're gonna get a little attention."

"I don't care if they're getting attention," Castiel said cooly. "Or if they take over the kitchen, or the house. Sit wherever they please, take whoever's smoothie. They drink beer in front of you-."

"I can look at beer without drinkin' it," Bobby said. But it was a tense answer.

Had Bobby quit drinking? And had Sam and Dean been drinking in front of him all damn day? Crap.

"And now they're leading an invasion?" Castiel asked. "Right now, they're downstairs making a list of all my friends, of everyone they think they can throw into this, and the plan is to what? Succeed where Raphael failed? We're not even supposed to question it."

"I know," Bobby said, bandaging the cuts. "It just happens, I can't explain it. Things just kinda revolve around 'em. Everyone else is just... supporting cast in The Sam and Dean Variety Hour. I also know that, while they've been gone, you got be the star."

Castiel got a little self-conscious at that. "This isn't about me," he said.

"Like hell," Bobby said, but in a weirdly gentle way. "I get it, you're wound-up. And I know why. But there's better ways to say so than hulkin' out and cuttin' your damn fingers off."

Castiel let a deep breath out, frustrated. "It was an accident," he said quietly.

"I know," Bobby said. He gripped Castiel at the shoulders and forced a little eye-contact. "Hey. You and me, we ain't goin' back the way it used to be, just 'cause they fell out of some time-bastard. You're still the best friend I've got. That doesn't change. You hear me?"

Bobby didn't wait for an answer. He pulled Castiel into a hug, a very nice one that seemed to really cast the sad out for both of them. There was a little more going on here than meets the eye, you see.

They didn't allude it, for fear of the merciless teasing they'd undoubtedly incur, but hugging wasn't just an "every now and then," special occasion type deal for them. It had become a part of their morning ritual, right before work. Castiel was formerly a celestial being, so expecting him to remember to wear his heavy coat in the winter of his very first year as a mortal, much less zip it up, was naivety on Bobby's part. And no one unlucky enough to live through one cold & flu season with a sick ex-angel on his hands would ever wanna roll the dice like that again. So, in the colder months, Bobby got in the habit of making sure Cas didn't leave the house without a decent coat, zipped all the way up, and maybe a scarf or a silly-looking knit cap.

But when you know there's something out there randomly killing angels, and you've already buried a couple of people you love very dearly, a morning coat check can occasionally get a little real. Goodbyes can feel wrong, hugs can happen. And, as it often is with humanity, even if you'd gotten by swimmingly without something your whole, long-ass life, if it's nice enough, if times are dark enough, and if no one's around to tease you for doing it,... you can start to need it.

That morning, they hadn't done their ritual. No zip-up, no hug. No parting words, or even a smile. Just a tense, lonely moment before Castiel left for work, and both of them had been in a funk ever since. The day wasn't horrible, per se. It was your standard pale, boring january day. But it was off in some aspect. Depressing. And all the fallout from Sam and Dean's miraculous return actually fed pretty neatly into this. As glad as they were to see the boys again, (and despite all the moodiness, they really were glad) Bobby and Castiel were still changed by their deaths, and nothing could change them back.

Bobby didn't let the hug drag on too long, though. Partly because totally manly, you guys, for serious. But mostly, he could feel his own issue coming up. The thing that had been making Bobby a furtive, murmuring grump since Sam and Dean showed up, a thing we shall save for later. And anyway, lingering hugs always made Bobby a mess. They were both in a much better mood, now; best not overstay.

"Why don't you go loaf around," Bobby said, "I'll find our book."

MEANWHILE - DOWNSTAIRS

Sam and Dean had parked themselves on the couch in front of Bobby's big screen, enjoying their first drama-free moment of the day by being as lazy as possible. Dean was apparently in charge of the remote, flipping past channels. He stopped on some ending credits scrawl.

"Crap, we missed Back to the Future," Dean said.

"Is it coming on?" Sam asked. "They never play it just once. Check the thing."

Dean checked the channel guide. It was on after Devil's Advocate.

"Not for another couple of hours," Dean said. "There's gotta be somethin' on 'til then."

"Oh, hey, go back," Sam said, trying to steal the remote. "Arsenic and Old Lace is on in a few minutes."

Dean kept it out of his reach, but flipped back to it anyway. "What's that, a snuff film?"

"It's funny," Sam said, "Cary Grant thinks his crazy brother kills people, but it's really his crazy aunts, and his other brother, who's also crazy and a Frankenstein-."

"Dude!" Dean shouted, like it wasn't the middle of the freakin' night and some people don't have real jobs.

"What?" Sam asked, with all the innocence.

"Don't act like you don't know," Dean said. "You just spoiler-ed the whole damn thing!"

Sam shook his head, tired, with just a hint of guilt. They've had this fight before. "No, I didn't," he said wearily, "just watch it."

"I don't have to now," Dean said in his pissiest/daintiest voice, "you just told me everything that happens in it. You always gotta blurt out the plot!"

It was on now. Sam was getting defensive. "Hey," he said, "we both tell each other about the stuff we've seen, okay? It's how people talk. You just don't care when it's you doing it."

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, well," and mumbled under his breath, "at least when I do it, it's an accident."

Sam gawked at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you do it on purpose," Dean said. "You love doing it."

Sam hit Dean with a buckwheat pillow. "Oh, that is such crap!" he whisper-shouted. "Why would I do it on purpose?"

Dean looked Sam in the eyes, completely serious. "Because you're sick," he said. "You get off on ruining stuff for me."

Not cool. Dumb brother fights are serious business, yo.

"You know what?" Sam said, getting up from the couch. "Up yours." He headed for the stairs.

"Fine," Dean said, "be like that. More cable for me."

Despite the arguing, Dean put Arsenic and Old Lace on anyway. A little awkward. A little guilty. Thinking maybe he went too far.

And that was when Sam doubled back. "He's adopted," Sam said with angry triumph, ruining the whole goddamn movie.

"Oh, screw you!" Dean hissed, flipping Sam off. But he didn't change the channel.

Sam started to head upstairs, just to get away from Dean: you don't drop a piranha in a kiddie pool and then stick around to watch the bubbles. But halfway up the stairs, Sam heard something that made him slow down. Something nostalgic. Bobby's voice, reading Shakespeare:

"'In few, they hurried us aboard a bark, bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared a rotten carcass of a boat, not rigged, nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats instinctively had quit it...'"

CASTIEL'S BEDROOM

Converted nicely from the old laundry room/water heater closet/yet-to-be-installed jacuzzi storage, Castiel's room was large, but very spartan. It had a military feel to it, since he'd decorated it himself. There was low-contrast wallpaper (grayish green), boots lined up against the wall, and a set of plain jane bedroom furniture. Aside from some hockey trophies on the dresser and a weird, green oil painting (by Cas) of what looked like a lamprey's mouth, it was all pretty spare. One of the kitchen chairs was usually in the corner. Castiel thought of it as "Bobby's chair".

Most nights, whenever they had a good book to read, Bobby would hang out a while and read to him. They talked about it like it was a really small book club, like they were reading together and maybe discussing the text. And sometimes they did. But mostly, Bobby would just read aloud, and Castiel just liked to listen. This was one of those nights.

Bobby sat in his chair, one foot propped up on the bed frame, reciting from The Tempest by a reading light he'd snapped to the book. Castiel sat up in bed, listening soberly, settling down from a screwed up day the best way he knew how. It wasn't some saccharine, clichéd, pajama-clad, covers up to the chin, 'bedtime story' scene - Castiel was still in his day clothes, sitting over the blanket, leaning back against the headboard, all brooding and introspective. This was Shakespeare, dammit, and they were grown-ups. Being cool.

But that was a steaming load, of course. This was another private, comforting ritual they'd come to depend on. A weird mix of company and consistency that elegantly convied a sensation one might call identical to familial affection, if one was so inclined. In short, this was a bedtime story. They were not cool. They were family, they were cute, and they were kidding no one.

"'There they hoist us'," Bobby said, unconsciously reading Prospero's lines in a booming voice, "'to cry to the sea that roared to us, to sigh to the winds whose pity, sighing back again, did us but loving wrong.'" He used a softer voice for Miranda, "'Alack, what trouble was I then to you.'" And back to the Prospero voice, "'A cherubim thou wast, that did preserve me. Thou didst smile. Infused with a fortitude from heaven, when I have decked the sea with drops full salt, under my burden groaned; which raised in me an undergoing stomach, to bear up against what should ensue...'"

DOWNSTAIRS - A LITTLE LATER

The opening credits for Arsenic and Old Lace had come and gone. The story was set up, all the exposition taken care of. Thus far, Sam's spoiler had somehow not ruined the entire movie for Dean. In fact, it was pretty good, as soon as the plot was established. Every once in a while, Dean's eyes would flick from the screen to the staircase. He could see to nearly the top of the stairs from where he was, and Sam's feet were up there, like he'd just been sitting near the top for twenty minutes. Was he sulking up there? It was a tiny, dumb thing for them to fight about. Maybe. Just maybe... Dean had been a jerk. He knew that, if he was a jerk, Sam was a way bigger jerk, but maybe Dean had been a jerk. And he felt like it.

"Hey, your movie's on," Dean called out. "You gonna pout up there all night? ...I'm not changing it, you might as well watch it... Sam?"

Sam hadn't moved.

This was a lot of crap. Dean got up and headed for the stairs. "You can't ignore me all night, I'm the only one who knows where your dopp bag is." Dean rounded the corner.

Apparently, Sam wasn't sitting at the top of the stairs to be all pissed about the fight. He was laying up there, his jacket rolled into a pillow under his head. Just like he used to, he'd fallen asleep listening to Bobby read Shakespeare. You could still kinda hear it downstairs, Bobby reading out Antonio and Sebastian's plotting. And that "Sam Face" - the troubled as hell expression Sam usually had when he slept - was gone. Replaced by the careless, dead-like smoosh face of a not-miserable sleeping dude. Dean saw the face. He didn't know why it made him anxious, not yet. But it did.


	30. What You Don't Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's those two guys again! What do YOU think Shipley sold his soul for? Guys like him usually don't end up demons. Lydecker, on the other hand, is exactly the kind of guy you'd expect to meet in Hell, and I mean that in the nicest way. Meanwhile, Balthazar is too hammered and horny to process this "demonic emotional crisis" crap.

THE PENTHOUSE - EVENING

Balthazar sat on the piano bench in the living room, glaring vague threats of death and foreign object insertion up at his interrogators: Shipley and Lydecker stood over him, effecting the cop-like authority that won them their jobs.

"The demons are still celebrating," Shipley said. "They keep saying, 'phase one'. But if you're trying to take over the world for all demon kind and you just killed all the angels, that's not really a plan with steps."

"Less 'phase one'," Lydecker chimed in, "more 'phase only'. It's us next, isn't it? Now that Heaven's out of the picture, Rowan & Martin are gonna whack all the demons."

Balthazar was too hammered to argue properly. "Are you blackmailing me?" he asked.

"No," Shipley said sternly, "we're not selling out our entire species just to save our own necks."

"Everybody calm down," Lydecker said, and added to Balthazar, "Also, I'm not with him in that regard. I love my neck - totally cool with selling out."

"Tom," Shipley said, "focus."

Lydecker whispered defensively, "I'm just saying, our entire species? Bit of a ballbag."

"Your lives for your silence," Balthazar said. "Now that you prats have revealed your malicious disloyalty, it's the only way out. Let me put it another way: right now, you two are smoke, shoved into bodies. But I can shove you both someplace a  **lot more**  interesting."

"Well," Lydecker began nervously, "they're expecting me at the orgy any minute, so if you two lads wanna chat without me...?" He started backing away.

Shipley caught him at his elbow and made him stay. His eyes were locked on Balthazar. "I don't know what your game is," he said, "but demons aren't gonna take this lying down."

"They won't know," Balthazar said wearily.

Shipley shrugged. " _I_  figured out, and I'm not that smart. But if I was gonna wage war on Heaven and Hell, I'd have to be a lot stupider than I am now not to be scared of a revolution."

Through the haze of booze, Balthazar was monumentally pissed. Shipley wasn't backing down. Unable to leave, Lydecker was sporting an anguished expression, reminiscent of The View's co-hosts whenever a guest upset Barbara Walters.

Finally, Balthazar stood. His borrowed body wasn't bigger than Shipley's, but it didn't have to be to turn him into cat food. "What else do you want?" he asked, and by the warning in his tone, one more demand would see their heads ripped from their shoulders.

"I just wanna know if it's true," Shipley said. "Demons..." He was starting to get nervous himself. "I mean, you're an angel, you'd know better than we would."

Balthazar's eyes narrowed, but there was something amused in them. The guy just got done threatening an angel without batting an eyelash, but now he was near to sweating bullets. "What are you trying to say?" he asked, sounding more like his usual self.

"He wants to know if demons are capable of love," Lydecker said, rolling his eyes.

Balthazar smiled. These two were hilarious. " _Aww_. No wonder I always see you both together."

"Ha-ha," Shipley said bitterly. Why must everyone mock his spiritual crisis?

"Why ask me?" Balthazar said, his voice betraying something important. "Heaven's official word on the subject of demons-."

"I was hoping for something a little less official," Shipley said. There was a pleading note buried under all the dead serious.

Balthazar was getting a bit choked up. He knew damn well what Shipley was asking, and he was just drunk enough to answer. "I don't know if every demon is capable," he said. "It's not something everyone can feel, regardless of species. But, 'unofficially', it's distinctly possible. Whether the mind of a creature broken by torment can feel hope,  _enough to act on love_ ,... has yet to be seen."

A moment passed between the three of them. Shipley was torn between pitying Crowley, Balthazar, and himself. And Lydecker, despite his mod snarkiness, had always been more of a romantic than he'd let on. In fact, he was exactly like Shipley in that regard. In their own demony way, they wanted to believe in a better world.

Balthazar had been carrying this little factoid around for years, and it was getting to the point where it was crushing him. He'd read Crowley's mind countless times, and knew the burnt, dead places, the parts ravaged by torture, from what was spared - or, more accurately, what  _couldn't be_  destroyed. Crowley still trusted easily. He enjoyed innocent things. And if he let himself get close enough to someone, love was his natural state. But there was no hope that his life could change for the better. No faith that someone he loved could ever love him back. And so much well-earned fear that his life as King was merely part of a slow-burning torment.

On some fundamental level, Crowley never left Hell.

Balthazar pushed past Shipley and Lydecker, headed for his own room. He didn't need two dopey stooges feeling sorry for him. Not when there was an orgy winding down.

Lydecker frowned at Shipley, arms folded. "Why? Why'd you have to ask him? That was horrible. It was like your haircut, only it was _a moment_ , and you trapped us in it."

"I guess I thought the answer would be worth it," Shipley said.

"Was it?"

Shipley watched Balthazar's door close. "I'm not sure yet."


	31. March of the Similes on Tonight's Soppy Romance Theater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not my fault we keep returning to the lovebirds. They just have a lot of stuff to work through.

HEATHCLIFF STUDIOS - MORNING

The Heathcliff Studios commissary was an an art deco dinosaur of a cafeteria, but was still considered comfortable enough for visiting contestants to meet the stars of "Inferno." Yellow, cheery, decorated in a vaguely Spanish style. Louis Prima's "Just A Gigolo" played over the P.A. The tables closest to the entrance were always reserved for the hosts and contestants. Like was his habit before they started filming an episode, Balthazar was having breakfast with the newbies - a pair of sisters from Nevada who'd won the Facebook contest. They were getting properly schmoozed and all their merch and photos were getting dedicated and signed.

Like many mornings, Balthazar was hung over almost to the point of absurdity - wiping out the Host of Heaven will do not-good things to an angel's self-esteem and can often lead to the drinking of one's feelings. Still, he ignored the bruises and the fog and managed to put on his act, lest the fans be disappointed. Having an army of innocent worshipers begging to sell him their souls seemed to lessen the blow of just about everything in his life these days. This was his average morning, and in spite of everything, he loved it.

Naturally, this was not how Crowley spent his mornings. Usually he was booked solid, micro managing, meeting with producers, advertisers, people from the network and press - all the stuff Balthazar was always too blitzed or back-chatty to help with. But this morning, all of that went out the window because of very special circumstances that required an immediate summit meeting of the two show hosts. Scruffy, rumpled, and - god forbid - casually dressed, Crowley was on his way to the commissary in an awful state. For the first time ever, he wore some of the show's branded merchandise: a leather racer jacket with a high collar, suspiciously zipped all the way up. Sunglasses to hide his red eyes. No one recognized him until he walked through the commissary doors and one of the contestants squealed. Crowley never came to the contestant breakfasts!

Balthazar turned and looked back over his shoulder, absolutely flabbergasted. Crowley tried to smile for the rabble, but they'd known each other long enough that Balthazar could tell he had murder on his mind.

"Don't mean to interrupt," Crowley said, so politely.

"Trouble with the censors?" Balthazar asked.

"Wardrobe and makeup," Crowley said. He turned to the contestants with a small smile, as sweet as spun sugar. "Mind if I steal him for a bit?"

It was a little disappointing, but the ladies quickly conceded in the face of charm and damnation. Crowley motioned with his head to the bathroom.

BALTHAZAR'S EYEBROWS

Am I screwed?

CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS

Beyond screwed-.

BALTHAZAR'S EYEBROWS

Bollocks.

CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS

-So far from screwed, that the light from screwed will take a thousand years to reach your planet!

Meanwhile, the constants just watched as the two silently stared at each other. What the effity eff?

Crowley finally headed for the restroom, Balthazar made his excuses and followed. Once inside the surprisingly cozy lounge, Crowley looked around, confused. "Why is there a sofa in here?"

"We're in the ladies' room," Balthazar said dryly. "What's all the doom and gloom about? Wake up on the wrong side of the biker this morning? And PS, you need to shave before the show. I told you, beards are my thing."

Crowley locked the door, pocketed his shades and turned, his entire face the definition of annoyance as he unzipped his jacket and moved the collar aside on his tacky Inferno t-shirt, revealing the issue. Balthazar had left bite marks and bruises all over Crowley's neck and shoulder. On seeing them, Balthazar doubled up, laughing breathlessly, wheezing in pain from how hilarious he thought the whole thing was was. All that drama for a few hickeys?

" _It's not funny, Taz,_ " Crowley said, the wrath of Hell and boyfriends in his voice.

Balthazar braced himself on the sink counter, trying to rein it in. "No, no, you're right. It's the tragedy of the season!"

Crowley whisper-shouted, "Would you be quiet?! I could do you for sexual harassment."

Balthazar was a little annoyed by that. "Oh, you can do me any way you like, pussycat," he said with super-snark in his tone, "but as far as the love bites go? You started it."

"You got me drunk."

"You made the drinks!" Balthazar shouted.

It was loud enough that Crowley had to go and cover Balthazar's mouth with his hand. He looked halfway to terrified. "You wanna yell?" Crowley whispered. "Bubble it."

Balthazar scoffed like a surly teenager and shoved Crowley off - in addition to being 100% done with "will they or won't they" secret romances, he was so thrashed that morning, asking him to use his powers was akin to suggesting he pick up trash by the side of the road. He snapped his fingers.

"There," Balthazar said, "we're currently inaudible. No one can hear me say what a colossal brat you were last night."

"I was on the wagon," Crowley said, still furious. "I was wounded and bleeding out, and you pushed me into that whiskey."

That shut Balthazar down a bit. Yeah, he did kinda scoot Crowley off the wagon.

"I only wanted to have a drink with you," Balthazar said, a bit sadly, very guilty. "We used to all the time, it was the best part of my day. Besides, you only quit drinking 'cause that Jenna what's-her-face told you it was empty calories."

"I don't care what the rationale is," Crowley said. Although he clearly did. As quick as it went by, the idea still registered: Balthazar just wanted to be with him. But he pushed the thought away. "You still took advantage, you desperate little budgie."

"Oh, please!" Balthazar shoved his hands down into his pockets, bristling. "I was blue about helping you kill off what's left of my family. Vulnerable. And you seduced me."

"You begged me to sit on your lap," Crowley said. "On what planet is that-."

"Crossroads," Balthazar said simply.

Crowley frowned. What the hell did that mean? But then it came back to him. And he didn't just recall the existence of the game, he began to slowly remember the sequence of events that followed. His eyes floated away to a conveniently less embarrassing object, so Balthazar cleared his throat to get Crowley's attention and moved his collar aside to draw attention the bruises on his own neck.

The moment was getting too awkward and surreal for Crowley. "You didn't heal them," he stated quietly.

Balthazar shrugged. "They give me color," he said. He crossed to sofa and sat down, getting to the point where he was finally feeling his share of the embarrassment. "I know what this is about, you don't have to hide it from me, Mignon. I can't imagine what you've been through."

Crowley squinted at Balthazar like he had a wandering birthmark. "What?"

"The time you spent in Hell," Balthazar said, "the way they break souls. I know why you're afraid to be with me."

Crowley rolled his eyes, a hand up to keep the reality at bay. "We're not having this conversation."

"Just sit with me," Balthazar said softly. "Please?"

"I'm gonna get in my Wayback Machine," Crowley said, voice full of warning, "and we're gonna go back in time, to before you started embarrassing of yourself."

Whoa. Enough was happening that, despite his attempts to be delicate, Balthazar wasn't having the attitude. " _ **Sit**_."

Crowley scoffed. Was Balthazar really gonna order him around? Eye-roll, snicker-face. "Yes,  _ma'am_."

But weirdly enough, Crowley didn't just sit down, he sat on Balthazar's lap, straddling him casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And it did seem natural to both of them, to the point where it took a minute for either of them to notice.

"How... did you do that?" Crowley asked, like he'd blacked out at a magic show and just woke up on someone's lap.

Balthazar shrugged, equally clueless. (If he'd known it was that easy, he would've been doing it for three years.) But after a moment of consideration, it truth hit him. Brow furrowed, looking at Crowley like he was a very interesting ant doing something inventive with a jelly bean.

"...You like it when I tell you what to do," Balthazar said.

"Did you hit your head on a boom mic again?" Crowley asked, chuckling at the absurdity.

"It's not my fault they dip them that low," Balthazar said, a little self-conscious.

Still laughing, Crowley started to get up, but Balthazar gripped him at the hips and pulled him back down.

"And don't you dare change the subject," Balthazar said, amazed at the revelation. "You like it when I boss you around. You respond to it."

"I'm gonna let this slide," Crowley said, "because you've got that angel's fetish. But you're off your nut."

"The minute you became the Devil, you ran out and found someone to be God," Balthazar said, just marveling at him. Three years of weirdness was beginning to make sense. "Of course you did. All you get for subjects are a pack of rabid dogs, and no matter how good you are to them, they can't wait to tear you apart. Because you're not an archangel, or an ancient abomination. You're a cigarette girl and everyone knows it. You've got the weight of the world on you, Sword of Damocles over you. The buck always stops here."

That struck a chord with Crowley. Not that good to be the king, as it turns out.

"There's no one to help you," Balthazar said, "no one to hold you. To pet you when you're good, or make it better when it all goes wrong. That's why you made a deal with the enemy. You needed a big, strong-. Back up, what 'angel's fetish'?"

Crowley's smirk returned. He had the mic back. "The chase," he said, his tone becoming just a bit intimate. "Angels have to toe the line, ask for permission. Be good little boys and girls. But God didn't make you perfect, did he? All that strength and you're never allowed to be weak. You're castrated and it don't feel good-."

"Watch it," Balthazar said. Total nerve strike. He worked his fingers into the belt loops of Crowley slacks and gave them a tug. You know, a regular, platonic trouser-tug. Like you do.

"You want to take what isn't yours," Crowley went on, his tone becoming hypnotic. "No one pulling your strings," he gently pried Balthazar's hands off his hips, "picking your brain. There's so much longing you're not allowed to feel. You're a beast on a leash, terrified that someone's gonna give it a yank if you're not good. But I've got news for you..."

Crowley leaned in, quiet, his breath hot on Balthazar's skin. His hands against the sofa on either side of Balthazar. No way out. Balthazar was looking a bit woozy already, frustrated, but helpless in the face of a good villain monologue.

"There's no one on the other end," Crowley said. "Everyone who'd ever made you feel small. Powerless. Broke you down? You defeated them. They never stood a chance. And they're scattered to the winds now. So you can have it." He whispered in Balthazar's ear,  _" **Everything**  you ever wanted. All you have to do... is take it."_

A beat. That's all it took for Crowley to hop off Balthazar's lap and get back on his feet, crossing the room.

"Too bad you don't have a fetish," Crowley said, giving Balthazar an evil look over his shoulder.

Balthazar sat stunned, as angry as he was aroused. He couldn't even speak for a moment. Meanwhile, Crowley hopped up on the sink counter, staring down Balthazar, biting his lip with mighty satisfaction.

Finally, Balthazar pulled himself together enough to answer. "And what if I don't take it?" he asked.

Crowley shrugged. "Nothing changes. Nothing could. You go on being your castrated self, and I find another beast who likes the chase. I hear Butcher asked-."

Crowley didn't even see Balthazar get up and already, he had Crowley pinned back against the mirror by his shoulders. A hairline fissure broke out over the mirror. Balthazar was in Crowley's face now, more steamed than we'd ever seen him.

"Not. Butcher," Balthazar said sternly.

Crowley stared at Balthazar, still as a photo, save the rise of his chest with the quiet, heavy breathing that came. All that sexy angel stuff hit his system like vodka and Redbull.

"Alright, I like it a little," Crowley admitted. He finally cracked a smile. A tiny one, the tip of his tongue snaking out to touch his upper lip. "But you can't tell me that didn't feel good." They were both breathing heavy now, dizzy with lust. "Now you get to be in charge."

" **Finally** ," Balthazar said hungrily.

"No more gods," Crowley said, "no more masters. No one telling you-. Oi." He looked down at one of Balthazar's hands.

"What?" Balthazar realized what Crowley was trying to tell him and obediently let him go. He slipped his arms around Crowley's waist instead, and Crowley responded by putting his arms around Balthazar's neck, pulling him in by wrapping his legs around him.

"No one telling you what to do," Crowley said.

The irony was thankfully completely lost on both of them.

"How many times have you wanted to just...  _make me_  behave?" Crowley asked, baiting him. "As many times as I'd walked away from you? Waiting. Needing you to follow."

And now Balthazar realized the stupidly simple truth. At last. "But you couldn't tell me," he said, "because I could've broken your heart... It's all my fault. For never telling you when we were sober. I love you."

Crowley stared at Balthazar for moment, looking terrified. Too much honesty! All he managed to say was a quick, "No." He lunged, fought to get away from the screaming sincerity of the moment. Not about to let it go on for another three years, Balthazar leaned back and lifted Crowley up off the counter, robbing any traction he had for an escape. After a moment, the knee-jerk flight response died down easily. Crowley closed his eyes, actually looking relieved. Like he'd stepped off a ledge, only to be pulled back.

A long moment passed. His feet touched the ground, hands migrated down to Balthazar's shoulders. Crowley was finally in a position to say exactly what had been on his mind.

"I love you."

He still couldn't look Balthazar in the eye. There was so much pain in Crowley's voice, but it was all, metaphorically speaking, heading in the direction of the exit. The only things keeping Crowley upright now were the arms that held him.

And just like that, what had started as a fight and mutated into a randy tease-fest, somehow transformed into honesty and catharsis. Not that it wasn't far more overwhelming.

"I tried not to," Crowley said quietly. It was true, he had tried not to love Balthazar. And failed spectacularly, but points for effort. He laughed a hollow laugh. "What the hell do we do now?"

"Well," Balthazar said, "the door is locked..." He laid a sweet, gentle kiss on Crowley's cheek, another nearer his ear. "And no one can hear us. We could play hooky for a bit."

Crowley smiled, but turned his head away with resignation. "You left a couple of contestants waiting," he said.

"To hell with them," Balthazar said, and planted another kiss on Crowley's neck.

"That's the plan," Crowley said, "but I have a meeting with Harvey about the tie-in chocolates, so-."

"Stay with me," Balthazar said, his voice small and pitiful. "Please?"

Crowley made an involuntary pleasure noise, but continued to lean away, actually managed enough self-control to push Balthazar off, and headed for the door. "We can't both let things slide," he said.

Balthazar caught up with him. Hands safely behind his back like a gentleman, he whispered softly in Crowley ear,  _"Daddy said stay."_

Crowley stopped in his tracks. His expression vanished behind a reflexive pokerface. His eyes wandered thoughtfully. "I wonder if that sofa is a pull-out..."


	32. Mulligan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Dean get some face time, and we find out a little more about what's been up with Bobby.

BOBBY'S PLACE - EARLY MORNING

Castiel was up and dressed early, as usual. He laid on his side, legs half off the bed, scribbling intently in a notebook. So intently, he didn't notice Dean standing in the doorway with a green apple/kale/garlic smoothie. Yes, it was a transparent consolation.  _See, Cas? I'm drinking the goddamn smoothie, gimme a chance._  He used the bottle to knock on the doorway and get Cas' attention.

"Dear diary," Dean said. "What's in the notebook, bundt cake recipes?"

Cas sat up quickly and turned the notebook over, looking at the floor. "Equations," he said. "Did you want something?"

Dean smirked and set his drink on the dresser. "Oh, like algebra? So you wouldn't be freaked out if I just..." He zipped over at a zippy pace and lunged for the notebook. In a quick struggle more befitting a couple of nine-year-olds, Dean wrested the notebook out of Castiel's hands and flipped through it. His smile fell.

Equations. Pages and pages of equations.

"Cas, you dog," he said sarcastically.

He was never gonna understand this guy, was he?

Castiel snatched the notebook from Dean and held it away protectively. "I don't like people sitting on my bed," he said pointedly.

"Yeah, okay," Dean said glumly, moving to sit on the nearby chair.

Bobby's chair. Cas looked like he wanted to say something about it, but clearly, voicing (and subsequently explaining) his concerns would be far more unpleasant. There was an awkward moment.

"So," Dean said. "You're up early."

"I'm an early riser," Castiel said. "I like to meditate before work. Or when I sense a stressful situation approaching."

Dean smiled sheepishly. Message received. He cast his eyes around the room nervously, looking for anything to lighten the moment. That's when he noticed the narrow bookshelf in the corner by the door. It had framed pictures and books, the usual junk. But closer to the bottom shelves, there were trophies.

"Hey," Dean said, more to himself.

He got back up and went to check out the shelf: it was full of hockey trophies and ribbons, a puck, some related stuff. There were also group pictures of a few different hockey teams - rough bunches of guys, with the calm, quiet air of men who could rip off your arm and beat you with it. Now Dean sat on the floor, looking through the pictures, and sure enough, he found Castiel in every picture.

"You kidding me?" Dean laughed. "You really played. What position?"

"Left Wing," Castiel said. He was getting that proud little smile again. Suddenly, having someone barge into his room wasn't  _that_  bad.

"Bet you got a lotta bunnies, huh?" Dean said, going through the ribbons.

Castiel rolled his eyes, as if to say,  _were there ever_. "There were  **definitely**  bunnies. But we got Frank fixed and promised to keep him indoors or in the hutch."

Dean squinted a moment but shrugged it off - the news of badass hockey Cas was just too good to throw away over bunny-owner Cas. Dean found a little wooden box that looked like a treasure chest. He opened it up to find it was filled with old teeth.

He held the box up, suppressing a smirk. " _Cas?_ " asked said in a sing-song tone. " _Whose teeth are these?_ "

Castiel looked down at Dean. "They're mine, now."

Dean smiled the proud-but-knows-he-probably-shouldn't-be smile of a dad who found one of his 'special magazines' in his son's drawer.

"You still play?" Dean asked, putting everything back, not exactly where he found it.

Castiel went back to his notebook equations, looking a little blue. "No," he said. "I got a concussion. We thought it would be better if I stopped."

"We?" Dean asked, getting to his feet. "Bobby made you quit, didn't he?" His voice was void of any attitude, like he was just trying to put it all together.

Castiel sighed and looked up. "I took it too far," he said. "Once I was out on the ice... Anyway, that's over now. Bobby and I have a deal, and hockey was just a way to break it, whether I meant to or not."

"What deal?" Dean asked. He put his hands up defensively. "Not tryin' to dig, you guys got your own life here and everything. I'm just trying to get caught up."

"No that's alright," Castiel said. "After you-." He went back to his equations. It made talking easier, anyhow. "After Stull, Bobby was having a hard time. Instead of coping, he was drinking. A lot. Meanwhile, I was mortal. Cut off from Heaven, God was no where to be seen. I had no place else in life, and something out there was killing angels. Bobby let me use the house as a base."

Dean nodded, getting a better picture now. "You started hunting," he said knowingly. "Got pissed at the world. You went big, didn't care if you lived or died, came home looking trashed a few dozen times and had a few royal rumbles with Drunken Hines. Am I close?"

Castiel sat up. He stewed for a moment before finally looking at Dean. "That about covers it," he said.

"Yeah, but not quite," Dean said sadly. "We really left you guys up a creek, right?" Dean took his drink off the dresser and just handled the bottle. It gave him something to do while he was feeling guilty. And for something that hadn't even happened in his own timeline. "We're gone, Bobby tries to drink himself to death. And you, tryin' to commit suicide by demon or whatever."

"I  _wasn't_  trying to kill myself," Castiel said. But the touchy way he said it suggested there was a little more to it.

"Fine, die nobly in battle. Whatever." Dean sat on Bobby's chair again, still spinning his deduction. "You were all family either one of you had left, but it took watching each other fall apart to make you figure it out. So you made a deal: Bobby would quit drinking, if you quit hunting."

"Almost," Castiel said, calming down. "The deal was, Bobby would start taking care of himself, but only if I stayed safe. As you can imagine, he's exploited the vague language of the pact to include more activities than just hunting."

"Oh. Right, right," Dean said, pointedly shaking up his smoothie. "What a dick, gaming the rules like that?"

Castiel cleared his throat and put his notebook down. Yes, the house being spotless and full of health food was just one example of Castiel expanding the definition of Bobby 'taking care of himself' from just quitting drinking. Castiel sat a moment, getting his head on straight, then he got up and headed for the door.

"I'm going to work," Castiel.

"Hey, you don't gotta take off," Dean said, getting up, almost following him. "Just because I said some stuff-."

"I'm not mad," Castiel said, pausing at the doorway.

"It's okay if you're mad," Dean said.

" **I'm not mad** ," Castiel said, coming back, practically in Dean's face. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"

Dean backed up a bit. "If I tell you," Dean said, "are my teeth gonna end up in that box?"

Castiel took a breath. Settled down. But he didn't break eye-contact. "No," he said seriously. "You'd have your own box."

They took a beat. They both let themselves smile a moment.

"I really do have to go," Castiel said. "It's story time today. We got a lot of kids coming in."

"So there's not a lot goin' on here until the rest of the guys show up," Dean said.

"Who's confirmed?" Castiel asked.

"Just about everybody," said Dean. "They've all been looking for a reason, I think. Frank's still on the fence, but you know how he is."

Castiel frowned at that.

"Frank the  _Guy_ ," Dean said, "not the rabbit."

Castiel nodded. "Well, if it's that important, I can talk to him," he said.

"You speak Truther?" Dean asked.

"I'm his favorite," Castiel said, with not a little pride. "If anyone can get him here, I can."

"Wow, great," Dean said. "But listen, since it's gonna be dead here till then, I was wondering if I could,... you know, tag along?"

"To the library?" Castiel asked incredulously.

"I'll bring my indoor voice," Dean said, "scout's honor. Come on, it'll give us a chance to... not fight. As much. Look, I don't wanna get sappy or anything, but in my timeline, you and me, we're were friends."

"Of course," said Castiel.

He stared at Dean a moment, brows knit. Somewhere between confused and intrigued. He was starting to put things together, too. The fact that he was Sherlocking something seemed to go over Dean's head.

"Alright," said Castiel. "If you don't mind quietly sitting while I file and stock shelves, you're very welcome to join me."

They started for the hallway, Dean looking all too happy he'd turned the whole thing around.

"Alright, let's go!" he said, way too upbeat about it. "Story time with the kids, sounds like a hoot. Lotta sugar-hyped runts tearin' around? Hot, single moms on the prowl-."

Castiel stopped gave Dean the most mortified look.

Dean took a breath. "Do-over," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I reused a chapter title from one of my other fics. Sue me, it fit too well.


	33. Mata Hari

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy Crowley's powers of sneakery and boyfriend-steering.

THE PENTHOUSE - MORNING

While breakfast was going on in Sioux Falls, something altogether less wholesome was happening at Heathcliff Studios. The place was home to a myriad of secret horror chambers, but the scariest place on the lot by far was a room known simply as 'The Pit'. It looked like the inside of a golden genie bottle, rich enough to give Zsa Zsa Gábor the hiccups. There was a circular pit at the center of the room, where a large, round water bed was mounted on a trampoline frame, sunken into the floor, covered in blue and purple silk sheets and gold brocade, tasseled pillows.

In case you hadn't guessed, this gilded nightmare was Balthazar's bedroom, a testament to what one angel can do with an expense account and a underdeveloped sense of decency. On the floor near the head of the bed/pit, there was a large brass breakfast tray with an open bottle Dom Pérignon Rosé, two crystal flutes, and an antique, French rotary phone. The phone began ringing incessantly. Rising from the depths of silk and weirdness with a dignity that defied scientific understanding was Crowley.

A far cry from the lonely, miserable king of our timeline, this particular Crowley was giddy as a rootbeer float. Glowing with satisfaction and peppered with scratches and bite marks, he answered the phone in a sing-song voice, "North pole, Santy Claus speaking. Would you like a doll or a firetruck?"

A loud voice barked the name " **Spode**!" from the other end loud enough to momentarily deafen Crowley. But in a moment, he wore a fond, knowing smile.

"Hello, Walter," Crowley said, in the flirtatious tone he always had when he didn't feel like taking someone seriously.

The caller, Walter Harvey II, was an elderly man, but with the vigor that follows a salesman throughout his life. He was CEO of Harvey Inc., a long-time sponsor of Inferno, who was determined to find a way to tie Hell sports to chocolate candies.

"Why aren't you answering your phone?" Walter said, calming down considerably.

"Joke's on you," Crowley said, "this isn't even my phone."

"I know," Walter said. "Ask me how I know." But before Crowley could say anything, he answered himself, "Because I've been calling your phone all morning! What's so important that you can't pick up?"

"My battery ran out," Crowley said sweetly, lying in such a shamelessly bald-faced way, it didn't come off as anything nicer than a brush off. "Why, did you miss me?"

"Normally, I'd be more than happy to entertain your cutesy crap," Walter said. "But I'm on new medication, so focus, please. My girl forwarded a message - some of your other sponsors are about to drop you, and they're trying to get the rest of us to follow them.

Suddenly, Crowley was all business. " **Names** ," he growled.

"Bosco Electric, Allante and those 'Chicken in a Hat' freaks," Walter said. "They've been contacted by the League of Mothers about dropping the show and they're considering it. But I think they just wanna throw their weight around."

" _Allante_?" Crowley said, getting pissed. Those ungrateful bastards! After all the cars I've sold for them? I  **drive** an Allante!"

"Three permits do not equal a license," Walter said in a remarkably indulgent tone.

Crowley pursed his lips a moment, trying to let his embarrassment go. "I mean I  _own_ and Allante. And anyway, the League of Mothers is just one woman, what the hell are they afraid of?"

"I don't know, but it's apparently big enough to risk the bad press you would, no offense, inevitably rain down on them. Something about base immorality on the program." Suddenly, Walter heard someone scream faintly over the phone. "What the hell was that?"

"Something... bit me," Crowley said, as coolly as he could. "What immorality?"

"Seriously?!" Walter hissed. "It's American Gladiators hosted by Satan, and you don't know what immorality?!"

"What  _sudden_ immorality?" Crowley clarified, doing his best to not to get pulled away from the phone by something moving under the sheets.

"Look, I know you're not shtupping that frenchman," Walter said, "but when you're practically humping each other on screen every wednesday night, some people get confused."

As if on cue, Balthazar emerged from under the sheets and lovingly licked a bite mark on the back of Crowley's neck. Crowley closed his eyes, gasping quietly, trying not to let himself be overcome.

"Those people were already confused," Crowley said quietly, fighting to sound calm. "Are you really gonna drop us over a bored housewife cashing in on moralistic panic?"

"Did I say I was with them?" Walter said defensively. "This is a summit meeting, somebody had to call you."

"...Thank you." Crowley took a breath, calming down.

Balthazar started nipping at Crowley's earlobe impatiently. The phone call was apparently taking too long. Crowley put his hand over Balthazar's face and gently pushed him off.

"We'll go the other direction," Crowley said listlessly. "Take out an ad in Variety tonight, tell everyone what they're trying to do and point out how illegal it is. Embrace the angle."

"So you're not denying it?" Walter asked.

"Why should we?" Crowley said. "Everyone thinks we're merry as springtime, wasting time denying it will only cost us. Who do they think they're dealing with, bullying me like I'm some sort of corporate stooge? I'm the King of Hell!"

"You're not really the king of Hell," Walter said wearily.

Crowley scoffed. "Oh, grow up, yes I am. But I'm more than just the TV Devil. I'm a superstar with a private tank. I've been the fastest selling halloween costume for the last two years, I host a day of hell-themed specials on The History Channel every Christmas, anything I say into a camera ends up trending on twitter. Joss Whedon is on my speed dial! I'm bloody Crowley!"

A beat passed.

"Roderick?" Walter asked calmly.

"Yes?"

"You're shtupping that frenchman, aren't you?"

Crowley smirked. "I haven't a clue what you're talking about," he said.

 _"Put him on the phone,"_  Walter whispered.

Chipper as all get out, Balthazar took the phone and put it to his ear. "Bonjour, ça va, est'ce que je pourrais vous aider, I'm not really French, but I love their fries."

Walter sighed heavily. "I'm very happy for you both, no need to elaborate, moving on. Have you had the prototypes?"

Balthazar gave Crowley a panicked look. "The prototypes? Yes, they were... very... yummy, we'll go with those."

"Which ones?" Walter asked, getting snippy. "The blueberry, the red cherry or the black cherry?"

Balthazar frowned. "I thought we were testing chocolate-" he said.

Before Balthazar could finish or Walter could have a fit, Crowley stole the phone back and said, "Actually, we were thinking boysenberry was better. I'm in a very purple mood."

"Not seeing the connection show-wise," Walter said. "And if it has anything to do with what you're looking at right now, again, there's no need to elaborate."

"Angels and Demons," Crowley said. "The place where the motifs meet. Blue and red."

"You don't think it's gonna look like a stunt?" Walter asked. "Given your little campaign."

"The only people who'll notice will be the people  _looking_  for a stunt," Crowley said zestfully. "And only half of them are spoiling for a fight. Let them tear their hair out - for once, the Devil takes the high ground."

"You're not changing the format of the show, are you?" Walter asked, sound concerned.

"I like the show the way it is," Crowley said. "I'll be red, he'll be blue, and we'll let the audience figure out purple. There, now, all better? Or do you need pepto?"

"Try the prototypes," Walter said.

"We're trying them right now," Crowley lied.

"I don't wanna know!" Walter shouted. "Jeez,... it's like walking in on your parents. If I get a mental image, you can forget about the ice show!"

Crowley and Balthazar were grinning all over. Listening to Walter flip out was almost as fun as watching it in person.

Balthazar took the phone back. "À bientôt, darling," he said, and hung up. He snuggled into Crowley and planted a few amorous kisses on his jaw. "That was a lot of quick thinking," he said. "I get so hot and bothered when you king people."

"We're going to have to find those chocolates," Crowley said, smiling and enjoying the attention. "Angels and devils biologically harmonizing is one thing, but there's no way Walter will stand having his prototypes ignored."

Balthazar kissed his way down Crowley's shoulder, then paused and frowned. "You really think we shouldn't change the format of the show?"

"We already added that revolving thing," Crowley said. "The show's golden, there's no point in changing it."

Balthazar took break, something obviously on his mind. "You're character is the king of Hell," he said. "But there's no king of Heaven. Why can't I be king of Heaven?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "We've been through this," he said, "you're not God."

" _Hey_ ," Balthazar said, just a bit whiny, "I thought I was the boss of you."

"In private, maybe," Crowley said, in a particular kind of tone. "But on the show? In public?  **I'm**  the boss, and you know it."

Balthazar smirked. He knew Crowley was baiting him.

"That wasn't a very nice thing to say," Balthazar said.

Crowley grinned the happiest grin in Grintown, the tip of his tongue flicking out for a moment. "That's right," he said, his absolute delight coming out in his voice, "I'm a rebel and I'll never, ever be any good. Whaddya gonna do about it?"

Balthazar pretended to consider it. "Well," he said, "it's either give you up to the home for wayward devils,  _or_... a little discipline may be in order."

Crowley became as giddy as a puppy. He wrapped his arms around Balthazar, resting his face against his chest and looking up at him sweetly. "How much is a little?"

Balthazar kissed the top of Crowley's head, then disengaged the hug, turning Crowley so that his body was facing the mattress. He kissed the back of Crowley's neck, down his spine. Crowley tried to look back over his shoulder at what Balthazar was doing, buzzing with anticipation. He pulled a throw pillow over to prop himself up a bit under his chin.

"The new storyline," Balthazar said. "I become the King of Heaven. And you're going to write it."

"Why can't  _you_  write it?" Crowley asked, gripping the pillow merrily.

"Because you're a better writer than I am," Balthazar said, subtle drawing the sheet away, off of them both. "And I want it to seem like it's your idea, sort of smooth things over with the bullpen."

"But I would never write that," Crowley said sweetly, his back arching of it's own accord. "It's not a logical progression. That angel as a king? No one would buy it."

That was it. Make-believe Balthazar could only be pretend-pushed so far. He raised his hand up and landed a loud slap down on Crowley's backside. Crowley gasped a little, gripping his pillow, a ghost of a laugh threatening to break out and ruin the game.

"Now that I think about it," Crowley went on, "your character  _does_ get more souls than mine. We never did anything with that. Maybe he'd get more powerful?"

Balthazar, who had been the very picture of evil glee, hand drawn back for another smack, paused. Crowley was touching on a sensitive bit of trivia, what with Balthazar's real-world lateral power increase (including and especially the mind-reading). If he thought too long about it, he might get suspicious.

"Or I could just get fed up with being teased," Balthazar said, squeezing Crowley's slap-mark. "I think it might ring truer."

Crowley sucked in a hissing breath. "You really think he'd grow a pair?" he said, about as brazenly as he could manage. "Up till now, our little angel's been pretty happy under king's thumb. Three years of that, he's gotta be a little submissive."

Balthazar smiled. He was relieved that Crowley had let the plot thread go, but more than that, manipulative Crowley never ceased to entertain. It was long past time for Balthazar to return the favor. He gave Crowley another, fiercer slap, and this time, he put enough up-swing into it that Crowley had to catch himself in the bed frame.

Crowley buried his forehead in the pillow, breathing deep. He moaned breathlessly, "Permission to break character..."

Balthazar settled down on top of him, the heat and pressure making Crowley squirm. He was sore already. Balthazar smooched his cheek, happy as a clam. Docile and not remotely convincing as a hard case. It took all of their combined powers of allure  _not_ to giggle like idiots.

"Granted," Balthazar said.

"This is the very best moment of my life," Crowley said. " _Ever_. It's not even a contest... I love you so much."

Balthazar couldn't keep his cool any longer. He began to kiss every square inch of Crowley's face, neck and shoulder - sweet, worshipful kisses, with the words, "love you" occasionally muttered in between.

"Time in," Crowley said in his peppy voice.

"No," Balthazar murmured between kisses, "I'm still in smoochies. And my hand hurts."

"That doesn't sound like something a king would say," Crowley said, practically singing his words. He maneuvered Balthazar so that he could whisper in his ear,  _"my king."_

Balthazar shuddered and gripped the mattress. He felt so tingly. "Oh... Oh, that's just the thing, isn't it? Say it again."

Crowley kissed the corner of Balthazar's mouth and held his gaze. Head tilted down, bedroom eyes at full-blast, his voice soft and fully of yearning. All of Crowley's Mata Hari powers turned up to eleven.  _"My Lord."_

Balthazar growled involuntarily - he seemed to have briefly lost control of his central nervous system. He kissed Crowley's ear, mumbling, "If I can't hold a microphone tonight, it'll be all your fault."

"And if I can sit down during commercial break, it'll be all  _your_  fault. Now come on, put your shoulder into it, or I'll write you a sassy robot sidekick."


	34. Her Name was Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A title for my bestie. If you get it, let me know.

BOBBY'S PLACE - EARLY MORNING

Dean stood on Bobby's back porch, arms folded against the winter wind. He had to take a moment to marvel at the fact that the property had an actual backyard here. Sure, there were still paved roads and lots from the old days, but without the junkers and under four inches of snow? It all just looked like yard now. It wasn't long before Castiel drove his car out of the nearest garage and pulled up in front of Dean, who didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It was a burgundy, 1989 Cadillac Brougham, waxed and boatlike. It was too cold not to get in fast, but Dean couldn't leave it alone.

"I feel like I'm going to a cranberry's funeral," Dean said.

Castiel (in his giant, puffy gray parka again) didn't know what that meant, but he recognized the look on Dean's face. "It's a  **beautiful**  car," he said defensively.

"If you're Dolemite," Dean said. And then he heard the music playing. It was the campfire mix of 'We Could Be Together' from Bobby's old Debbie Gibson mixtape (which he swears was a gift). "Okay," Dean said, "just let me-."

He reached for the tape deck and Castiel slapped his hand away.

"We're in  _my_  car," Castiel said. "I pick the music."

Dean snorted to himself, settled into his seat and muttered "tyrant" under his breath. Knowledge of the amount of fair this wasn't had begun to descend on him.

"Whatever happened to my Baby?" Dean asked. When he didn't get an answer, he looked worried. "My Impala?"

"I'm not clear on the particulars of the battle at Stull," Castiel said, "but the energy released, when Michael and Lucifer died, tore through a ten mile radius with the force of a category four hurricane. Your car was at ground zero."

"So she's wrecked?" Dean asked, still a bit hopeful. "But we can still fix her up. That's what Bobby does now, right? Fix up wrecks."

"In theory," Castiel said. "All Bobby and I ever found of your car was the trunk, stuck halfway through the side of a burnt down warehouse."

Dean looked like he was going to be sick all over the velvet interior.

"It was a small price to pay," Castiel assured him. "To ensure the fate of humanity. Heaven, Hell, Earth. I just wish we'd made it there."

"Sounds like things turned out alright for you and Bobby," Dean said.

"I know you did something," Castiel said.

Dean didn't follow.

"You said Lucifer killed me in your timeline," Castiel said casually, eyes on the road, "but you treat me different now. Like you think I should be angry at you. I'm guessing Stull wasn't the end for me afterall."

"No," Dean said. But he didn't wanna elaborate. They had a good thing going here, they didn't need to know what happened with Purgatory, or Bobby's death.

"So I survived somehow," Castiel went on, "and then you did something wrong. Or  _I_  did. Or we disagreed. And now, in your timeline, we aren't friends anymore."

"Don't try to head-shrink me, Cas," Dean said. "It doesn't get any smaller. We been through a lot on the other side of this Time Crotch, but we're still family, okay... You're the one that's changed here, not me."

Castiel gave Dean a quick, sidelong glance. "You made me miss my turn," he said.

"What the hell are we doing on this side of town, anyway?" Dean asked. "You always drive to work in a nautilus?" Castiel arched a brow at him. "What?" Dean asked. "I can't know what a nautilus is?" Castiel looked back at the road. "Screw you," Dean said, "I know plenty."

"I avoid the bridge on Underwood," Castiel said. "There've been no less than three collisions on it this winter alone. There's no guard rail no signs. The city really should block it off."

"Yeah, that old bridge," Dean said. "Me and Sammy used to jump off that thing every summer when we were kids. I remember, there was this girl he was sweet on - older girl. She was a real firecracker..."

Dean stopped talking when he noticed the tense look Castiel had.

After driving in silence a moment or two, Castiel asked, "...Did you ever get hurt?"

"Nah," Dean said. "Well,...  _yeah_ , we did. But you know, kids get hurt, they get dirty."

That made Castiel frown. "And nobody stopped you?" he asked. "What about Bobby?"

"Bobby? Bobby's the one who taught us how to swim," Dean said. "We learned in that river."

Castiel smacked the steering wheel. Glaring at the road, looking pissed as all get-out.  _"Son of a bitch,"_  he said under his breath.

Dean could tell what was ticking him off. "You need to have it out with him," he said. "I love Bobby, he's like a father to me. But he'll smother you if you let him."

" _Smother,_ " Castiel said, sounding validated. "That's exactly what he does. I feel like he's just...  **pressing on my brain** , and forcing all the air out."

"Okay, simmer," Dean said. "I know you guys had a deal, but come on. It's not healthy, two grown men picking at each other like an old married couple." Before Dean could even see the incredulous look Castiel was giving him, he added, "That's different, we're brothers."


	35. The Dog Pound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the love birds. It may seem like I'm meandering but really, I'm just a pervert. This is actually going somewhere, I swear!

HEATHCLIFF STUDIOS - AFTERNOON

A black, 1935 Lincoln Limousine idled at the entrance to the studio. The VIP car. Crowley and Balthazar were leaning out of their respective back windows, signing a few autographs for a small crowd, not yet aware of the picket line that was forming at the studio entrance. The Five Points Trinity Church, doing what they do best.

By this time on a weekday, Crowley usually would've gotten an enormous amount done - not that he had much choice in the matter. Hell needed kinging, minions needed to be properly threatened, storylines needed breaking, banter needed writing and re-writing, and there always needed to be someone watching the set like a hawk to make sure the safety standards weren't fudged by the set dressers. All things that needed doing, and all things that Balthazar was, to put it as kindly as possible, no damn help with at all. But playing hooky? He was infinitely talented at that.

After an entire morning of sumptuously unproductive activities followed by a long, private lunch, Crowley was feeling a little like wet spaghetti. For the first time since those pre-Apocolypse good old days, he was completely happy, satisfied, and stress-free. Balthazar, on the other hand, was death on toast. When they both settled back into the car, he looked exhausted. Pained. And just a bit resentful of how rested and content Crowley seemed.

"You know I was lying when I said it would hurt me more than it did you?" Balthazar asked, throwing his pen on the floor and rubbing his aching autograph hand. "Really, how is it possible you're in better shape than I am?"

"I'm a demon," Crowley said, smirking to himself, "we have a higher threshold for pain than angels."

"Oh, there's no way that's true!" Balthazar said, getting a little louder than he should've.

"Really? Do _this_."

Crowley flexed his hand at Balthazar. The very thought of trying it made Balthazar wince.

"I... declare a moratorium on violent lovemaking," he said.

"By what authority?" Crowley asked, grinning, just enjoying the hell out of this.

"Please, let's just be sweet to each other until my tendons grow back?" Balthazar whined.

Crowley leaned in to give Balthazar neck-kisses. "Are you trying to rob my advantage?" he whispered. "I don't do sweet, Taz, not for free."

Balthazar pulled him closer and kissed his cheek by his ear. _"I love you."_

Crowley squirmed a little at that, suddenly needing to hide his face away in Balthazar's shoulder. There's nothing more effective for making hell kings blush than a sincere declaration of affection. Still, he was all smiles. Even if he didn't completely believe that Balthazar really loved him, hearing him say it was still amazing. And he didn't try to make a break for it this time; that's real progress. _"Stop it."_

_"Make me."_

"Or you could both stop it," said a quiet, bored voice from the front seat. At some point, the limo's dividing window had been rolled halfway down. The driver was a cheap, Skeet Ulrich lookin' guy in his mid-twenties.

"Noole!" Crowley screamed at him. " _I will put your head through that bloody window if you don't roll it up **right**_ _ **god damn now**!_ "

Noole freaked right out at the sound of Crowley's screaming. He didn't know they could hear him. "I meant - there's a thing! Like a protest thing? Up ahead, it's those church dicks."

Crowley and Balthazar traded looks: church dicks? They rolled their windows back down and leaned out. They saw the protesters up ahead, chanting, holding signs with bible verses and slurs. Balthazar and Noole looked a bit worried but Crowley was elated. He sat back down and pulled his phone out.

"We have to let them in," Crowley said, with all the glee of a teenage boy who'd been handed a giant firework.

"Those Five Points morons?" Balthazar asked. "Didn't their leader confess to shooting at you?"

"He just said that to get on TV," Crowley said as he dialed security. "If they want attention, we'll give to them." Someone answered the phone. "Legion, let the protesters into the studio. No, we're not gonna kill 'em, they're gonna be my our dog pound... Like Arsenio? ...Hall! I'm old, but I'm not _that_ old."

Balthazar took the phone from Crowley. "Search them," he told Legion. "Nothing that could even remotely be mistaken for a weapon, you understand?" He hung up, still grumpy. "I don't like this. Those people just... they get under my skin."

"Maybe they're right about God," Crowley said. "He was an intolerant, wrathy fellow back in the day."

"I don't care what they say about dear old Dad, he's got it coming. I just don't like the way that Cooper talks about you. He wants you dead."

"He wants to be the one that kills me, it's not the same thing. Noole! Roll your window up or I'll feed you to the church dicks!"

"Alright, dude," Noole said, "but I'm the only one in this car that knows how to drive. You should be n-."

He was cut off when Balthazar bolted forward and knocked his head into the steering wheel, beeping the horn and bloodying his nose. He yanked Noole's head back and held an angel blade to his throat.

"I'm a little sensitive about my driving," Balthazar said. "So how about... you roll the window up and pray I forget which one of you freaks is which?"

Noole nodded, having a little anxiety attack.

Balthazar sat back down, the dividing window went up. Crowley was already on Balthazar, kissing, grinding, tearing at his clothes - there was something about angels doing violence. The sort of thing he should've talked to a therapist about.

" _I love you_ ," Crowley said in a growly voice.

"Was that so hard?" Balthazar asked, joining in.


	36. The Lamb Will Rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More from the pit. Is everything about sex?

The large family of Pastor Abin Cooper and their friends were let into the Inferno set while the house band was still rehearsing. Everyone gave the protesters a wide berth, because - though the cast and crew of this Hell-themed show were all monsters - these guys were downright creepy. They were chanting something about the Lamb of God and some of them were carrying signs with verses from Revelation. 6:12, 13:3, 13:7, 13:12. One of their signs read, "The Slain Will Rise". These are not the humans you feel comfortable inviting in.

Unless you're the devil.

Crowley and Balthazar shook off the last few fans wanting autographs at the door. The way Crowley swaggered toward the protesters, smirking the self-satisfied smirk of a man who'd just won, you'd think these people were here to bring him his trophy. Not something the Coopers were used to, but there's no scaring off the crazed. Crowley approached one of them, a woman in her 30s. Blonde, thin, tall. She lowered her sign and Crowley spoke, looking her right in the eye.

"Where's your sharpshooter?" he asked.

They fell silent, lowered their signs. Was it because they were trapped in an arena with a guy Abin told the cops he shot, or because they all knew it was a lie?

"The pastor isn't here," the woman said. "I'm his granddaughter, Cheyenne."

" _Cheyenne?_ " Crowley echoed, with as much sex in his voice as the laws of nature allow.

"I'll handle this," Balthazar said sweetly, pushing between them like the mean girl in a bad high school movie. These were supposed to be his people. Or, his _father's_ people after all. Well,... ostensibly. They seemed to think so.

"We won't talk to you," Cheyenne said.

That shocked Balthazar for a second. "Wha... me? I'm the only angel here, you realize. Don't I get-."

An older woman in back cut him off, "You're the _Beast's_ beast!" And as if that was the cue, the chanting began again.

Balthazar looked scandalized. Did that Jesus freak just call him a bitch?

Crowley, on the other hand, was highly amused, looking around himself hopefully. "Please tell me someone's getting this on film!" he said.

 _ **"Enough!"**_ Balthazar roared that them, loud enough to affect the sound system. Everyone shut their chant-holes and straightened up. Even Outside Her Syndrom was paying attention now. "There will be no touching," Balthazar went on to the protesters, calmly but sternly. "Not of the cast, the crew, or the audience. No spitting, no slurs, no threats. _You will **behave yourselves** or you will **leave**_. But if you're good boys and girls, you'll get to be on national television and wave to grandad. Are we clear?"

None of them spoke, totally gobsmacked, but Cheyenne nodded dumbly.

"Good." He turned and headed for the door, decidedly troubled.

Crowley went halfway to Outside Her Syndrom and started shooing them out of the band's pit. "You - get out, we'll find another place for you. Move it!"

Most of them started moving and taking their equipment with them, but Levi protested. "Zealots are gonna hate this," he warned.

"They'll hate it if I bite off all your heads and replace you with _Low Shoulder_ ," Crowley snapped back. "If I move you, they'll just whine about it on the internet."

That was enough to scare Levi out. As soon as the pit was clear, Crowley offered the space to the protesters with a sweep of his arm. They shuffled in and Crowley gestured for some minions to tend to them before leaving to join Balthazar at the door.

Crowley was just bubbly. _"That was **fantastic** ,"_ he whispered. _"You need to use that voice more often."_

 _"I think you're making a mistake,"_ Balthazar whispered back. _"I don't like them - we're partners, I should get a say."_

_"I know, that was terribly naughty of me... I should be punished."_

Balthazar glared at him. _"Not everything's about sex,"_ he said.

_"Of course not. Some things are about foreplay."_

Crowley smiled sweetly. No shame.


	37. Signals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds a cure for his boredom and Cas learns about flirting.

SIOUX EMPIRE CHILDREN'S LIBRARY - AFTERNOON

"Time - if one were to look at time through the mindset of linear progression - is like a great river, with streams and tributaries. With every choice we make, we have the potential to create alternate timelines. Whole other dimensions built on our own past but wildly different from our present. But most of these dimensions are too similar. They take the path of least resistance, the fated course, and end up absorbed back together. Like soap bubbles merging."

Far back in the stacks of the children's library, Castiel stood on a rolling safety ladder restocking the shelves with books from his trolly. Dean, who had tagged along and instantly regretted it, sat on a step stool nearby with his back to the shelf and his ear buds in. Eyes closed, arms folded. He'd fallen asleep to one of Castiel's outdrawn explanations, one he probably should've been paying attention to.

"I'm starting to suspect your timeline and ours are becoming too similar," Castiel went on casually. "Soon enough they'll converge, either with one of the timelines winning out over the other or with both kaleidoscoping in a cosmological bloodbath - the bubbles bursting. If prophesies are becoming jumbled in your world, then the merging has already begun in places. Even for selfish gain, the Crowley of your dimension was justified in sending _someone_ to jettison one of the branching timelines. As the catalyst for the divergence, it's only fitting that it should be you and Sam to decide. But then the question becomes... which line to sacrifice?"

He looked back to Dean. Fast asleep. Castiel took one of the heavier books he'd brought up with him, held it straight out in just the right way and let it drop.

When it hit the ground loudly beside Dean, he was shocked awake and yanked his earbuds out. "What happened - what was that?"

Castiel gave him a deadpan look. "I dropped a book, could you hand it to me?"

"Yeah... scared the hell out of me." Dean picked the book up, but it took him a moment to wake up enough to actually get on his feet.

"Tired?" Castiel asked.

"Nah," Dean said, "it's just... winter mornings. Blood's slow, hard to get moving." He finally dragged his ass up and handed Castiel the book.

Being a vindictive little snot, Castiel asked, "So which line would you chose?" knowing damn well he hadn't been listening.

Dean looked around, as if the answer would be somewhere nearby. "Hey, whichever line leads to coffee, I'm standin' in it."

Castiel shook his head. Why does he been bother monologing? But then he heard a noise that made him brace himself on the ladder. The too-loud voice of a young boy proudly roaring his own name like a battle cry:

**"RASHAWN!"**

The heralded Rashawn - a brown-eyed, runny-nosed, eight-year-old boy with a caesar cut, in a bright red winter coat - came barreling down the isle, smacking books off the shelves and growling. He was a warrior without a war - a casualty of winter inactivity. As he passed Castiel's ladder, he grabbed it and pulled, swinging it away from the shelf.

"Hey!" Dean barked after him, but let it go and dragged the ladder back to its place. When he looked at Castiel, he saw the dead-eyed shock of a man who'd seen too much death on the battlefield. These two clearly had a past together.

"Wild stab," Dean said, " _might that be Rashawn?_ "

Castiel sighed. "I'm afraid so. He's the reason the library has safety ladders. Considering what happened to Tyson."

As an adult approaching the age of 'sad old guy at the rock show', Dean was thoroughly annoyed by this kid. But part of him was impressed. Rashawn caused mayhem on a level that changed policies in a public library. That deserved some level of respect.

"The kid just gets to tear around like that? And where's the parents? Or should I not ask?"

"His mother's probably close by. She's very attentive." Castiel nodded to himself. "She's... a wonderful woman. And she has a lot to deal with."

Dean knew what that look meant - or at least he assumed he did. "Hot, single moms - called it! It's always the quiet ones. Come on, point her out. We'll find a Waldo to hide behind."

If Castiel's resulting expression was any indication, Dean had said exactly the worst thing possible. He quickly climbed down the ladder, quietly scandalized. " _Lower your voice_ ," he said seriously, as though Dean was drawing attention to the resistance.

"Okay," Dean said in a quieter tone. "What's her name?"

Castiel was clearly embarrassed, but the question wasn't exactly loaded. "Dani. Mrs. Brennan."

Dean frowned thoughtfully. Where had he heard that name recently? "Huh. And no Mr. Brennan?"

" _No_." The question clearly offended Cas. Poor taste! "He disappeared. I suspect a demon deal. I've never met the man, but... when I looked in Dani's eyes-." When he noticed the look Dean was giving him. "Stop making that face; it's inappropriate. Dani and I are friends. _Barely_. That's all I want."

It really was baby steps with this guy. "But you like her a lot?" Dean asked.

"Of course," Cas said. "Why shouldn't I?"

"And you wanna maybe... hang out?"

Castiel took a breath. It's not like she was the only person in town he liked spending time with,... but he did think about her a lot. With some other people, talking felt like work. They made him feel like everything he said was crazy. But Dani had a way meeting him in the middle, and not making him feel weird about it. Calming him down when he got nervous, which - depending on the day - could be a lot. She made boring winters at the library go by so much faster. He nodded.

Dean started pulling Castiel over to the end of the isle, hoping he'd point out Dani. "Come on, you wanna ask her out? Talk to her. What's the worst that could happen?"

"I could burst into flames," Castiel said. "It's unlikely, but if what you want is a worst case scenario..." He peered out of the isle and spotted a tall woman pleading with Rashawn to sit at a work table. Beside them was a quiet little girl in a pink coat with puffy pigtails. They were sitting by themselves, so Dean knew which one was her.

Danielle Brennan, middle-aged widow. She was a pretty mom, though not any prettier than the others. But she did have a look about her that stood apart from the Sioux Falls PTA set. She dressed like she was going to a fancy lunch and her black, micro-braided hair had a bluish tint and was pulled back in a low bun. So a little more formal than the beach-hair-in-winter moms in ugg boots and jeans, which might've had something to do with why she always sat alone.

Cas ducked back into the isle. He was very cool about it, but 'what if she saw me looking?' was all over his face.

Ever the life coach, Dean put a hand on Castiel's shoulder to steady him, gesturing with the other hand. "Look, talking to women is easy-."

"Don't patronize me," Castiel said, overly-offended. "I talk to women every day."

" _Focus_ ," Dean said. "I mean flirting, asking 'em out."

That seemed to put the fear into Cas, so much so that he didn't have the words to protest.

"Look - they're just people," Dean said, in the most reassuring tone he had on tap. "Okay? But there are a lotta scum bags out there who can't handle a hard no, so women... the gentler ones... got a high 'medium-friendly'. Nice all the time, to everyone. You wanna know if she means it, you gotta read the signals."

Castiel took a quick glance at Dani then turned back to Dean. "Right. I think demons killed her husband."

" _Okay_... We'll put a pin in that." Dean struggled to get his head back in the advice mind frame. "If you're interested in someone, first you have to put it out there, so they're not on the spot. And don't be too obvious, don't come on like a creep."

He caught a second look at Dani, an appreciative smile tugging at the corner of his mouth - she was growing on him. Nice normal lady. It was a hell of a lot better than watching him moon over demon chicks.

" **Really** listen," Dean went on, "Respond. Maintain eye-contact." When he looked back, Castiel was staring at him quizzically, as usual. "Yeah, okay, you got the eye-contact thing down. But if she's into it, she'll find ways to let you know. Right? Like, maybe,... she'll hold the gaze, smile a lot. Find ways to touch you, but like a safe kinda-."

Castiel looked at Dean's hand, which was still on his shoulder. Dean reeled it back and snapped by Castiel's ear.

"What' I say? _Focus_. You'll know it when you're in it, just go for it." Without anymore warm up, Dean started leading him out to talk to Dani. "And don't talk too much."

" _Spontaneous human combustion_ ," Castiel whispered, his fear mounting. " _I'm now proportionally similar to a human_."

"It's alright, buddy," Dean said, "I'll be there. Right there with ya the whole time."

And when they made it to Dani's table, Dean took off so fast it was practically a special effect. Castiel was left looking around a moment.

This was fine. He could do this. Hopefully without combusting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's Brennan now. Had to change it, 'cause I'm an absent-minded dingus.


	38. Combustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's always a lower place.

SIOUX EMPIRE CHILDREN'S LIBRARY - EVENING

Alone in the library's gloomy parking lot, Castiel sat gripping the wheel of his Brougham, looking shocked and nauseated. Dean had followed him out to the car but not fast enough to not get locked out.

"Roll the window down," Dean said, looking a bit like he was freezing his ass off. "Come on. You gonna tell me what the hell happened back there? What did you say to her?" But when Castiel had trouble making eye-contact, Dean figured it out. "You told her the dead husband thing?"

Castiel finally rolled the window down. "I did what you said - I got the signal and I went for it-."

"There's no signal for the dead husband thing!" Dean half whispered, half shouted.

Castiel stared at the steering wheel, distraught. "I can't go back there. I  _liked_  that job. Why did I let you talk me into this?"

Dean sighed. "So you blew your shot with Hot Mom and you're ready to go into witness protection? It's not the end of the world. I mean, the world's ending, but not 'cause you ate it back there. And hey - you didn't spontaneously combust, right? Could be worse."

"I've actually changed my mind about that," Castiel said gravely. "Combustion is looking like a viable Plan B."

While he was distracted, Dean reached into the car, unlocked the door and opened it. "Move over, I'm driving."

Castiel was annoyed at the idea of giving the wheel of his precious caddy over to anyone else, but he wasn't exactly in the mood to fight. He scooted over to the passenger side, and woe was him.

Dean got into the driver's seat and started the engine, rubbed his hands together to warm up. "Get some heat in here... What you do for fun?"

"Talk to Dani," Castiel said, being deliberately unhelpful.

"You know what? Maybe you need to take a break from this place. Gotten a little too real for you."

The implied insult of that seemed to snap Castiel out of his self-pity. Now he was pissed. "This is myworld, Dean. You have yours, you made your choices there and you have to live with them. But what happens here is still real. This is my life."

"No, this isn't your life," Dean said, matching his tone, "and not because of some Time Crotch. You're an angel, okay? You're a warrior for God, not the guy who wipes snot off the Barney DVDs. You wash out here, so what? What does it mean?"

"It means I've spent three and half years failing on the lowest difficulty." Castiel sat back, huffy, frustrated. He was still feeling sorry for himself, but for good reason. This was just about the last straw. "People here can see it in me: this... inadequacy. They know there's something wrong. They think I'm just psychotic or simple. Most of them never speak to us, they'd never say it to our faces. But I have good hearing. You know what the grandmothers who come in for Story Time call me? 'Singer's slow boy'. It didn't get to me at first. Bobby was more bothered than I was..."

Dean needed a few seconds. He was a little torn: on the one hand, he felt like getting names and ripping the faces off little old ladies. On the other, now he felt like a heel. Bobby kept snapping at him for joking about Cas being weird, and this had to be why. He'd probably spent the last three years defending him from the whole damn town.

It took him a second to collect himself. "Okay." Dean wiped his mouth as sort of a nervous gesture and put his hands back on the wheel. "You know those biddies talking smack about you over their hardcover of 'The South Was Right' - how much you wanna bet they have shelves full of porcelain angels at home? You think these people don't like you?  **They don't know who the hell you are.**  If they did, they'd be stepping on each other's dentures to be the next in line to have you look 'em in the eye and tell 'em something crazy. So where do you go that you're not supposed to go and let's friggin' go there, 'cause I can't with this crap hole."

Castiel had a hard time responding. He'd forgotten what it was like getting a Dean-talk. He was equal parts confused, alienated, and deeply touched. He looked ahead, comforted. Smiling to himself. "The mall uptown," he said. "They have a coffee shop. I like to buy cappuccino and watch people enjoy the carousel."

Dean smiled, half creeped. He'd almost forgot angels liked to watch people. And coffee at the mall? Was that really the wildest thing to do in town? Nope, didn't matter. Cas was in a better mood. "Okay, then let's do this."


	39. Old Soldiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sell your soul for half the price of a fancy bean water.

IMPERIAL MALL - EVENING

Between the afternoon rush and the dinner hour, the old mall in uptown Sioux Falls was usually pretty dead. Some couples, some bored teens, some parents using the stores as a babysitter. All the mall walkers were in bed. If you were an emotionally constipated angel with depleted grace, it was an ideal time and place to unwind. There was a big, green, vintage carousel in the middle of the mall and Castiel watched it go round from one of the semicircular benches that flanked it.

No too far away at the corporate coffee shop, Dean was picking up his order - a large black coffee and a tall-ass seasonal cappuccino with whipped cream. He stopped briefly at the condiment table where he took out a flask of whiskey to surreptitiously add a shot to the cappuccino, something he'd apparently done to the last two - in his biased opinion, booze was a perfectly reasonable way to grease the wheels on a bad day.

By the time he brought the drinks back to their bench, Castiel was still transfixed by the scene of families and joy but he looked pretty tipsy now, mostly feeling the headrush from staring into a bright, spinning object for forty-five minutes. He didn't move when Dean sat beside him and offered him his drink.

"Do you see that?" Castiel asked, his voice a bit more gravelly than usual. "That... they don't even care about the absurdity of existence. Or the thoughtless deity that orphaned them in this... big, fat failed experiment. Right now, everything's perfect." He smiled at that.

"Magic moments," Dean said dryly. "You want another ten dollar milkshake?"

He offered the cappuccino again. Castiel sat up and took it, suddenly almost alert.

"This means a lot to me," Castiel said. "Dee. Deener."

Dean chuckled to himself and watched the carousel. "You ever call me Deener again," he said, "I'll dropkick your ass all the way to Five Guys.  _Promise_."

"Dee-Dubbs," Castiel went on. "Wubbs. You can't nickname yourself, Wubbs."

"The hell I can't," Dean said.

Castiel drained a goodly portion of his drink, past the point of moderation. "This vessel, it's more confining every day. With so much evil in the world, it's so hard to do nothing. I get the urge to rain down the wrath of Heaven. But now, it's almost like Heaven never existed. Time crawls. I'm an old soldier, fading away."

Dean shrugged. A fight sounded good to him right now. "So why don't we go kick some demon ass?"

Castiel snorted at Dean being Dean. "Yeah.  _Let's go_."

"Come on," Dean said, still into it. "We'll tear it up! Like hunters. Small time stuff, Bobby doesn't need to to know. We'll keep the training wheels on, what's the worst that could happen?"

Castiel was still sober enough to give Dean the sassiest of looks. "Do you expect me to answer that question, or can I just squint?"

"Hey, I'm trying."

Castiel smiled at Dean, but in the done-est way. "You're trying to put me back the way I was," he sighed. "And I appreciate the effort - your sincerity. But I've spent years trying to move forward. To be a man. And it's already too hard."

Dean settled back, facing the carousel but looking at nothing in particular. "Not easy for any of us, Cas. It's not supposed to be. You've seen me and Sam; most of the time, we're hangin' on by a thread. And it's not just the 'end of the world' stuff, either. I tried what you're doing. Being normal. And that was  **so much harder**. At least when you're fighting monsters, you've got something you can punch in the face. And at least..."

Dean needed a moment. "They got the decency to kill you when you lose. But there are things about being a man... that even if you've got everything down, and you do everything right, you're still gonna feel that ache. So you roll with it, and learn how it all shakes out - you get wise. But then you start gettin' old. And just like that, life stops giving you things and starts taking 'em away. The people you love, the guy you used to be. It hurts to the bone, and sometimes, you can't make it stop.  _But it won't kill you_. That's the bitch of it all. So you just have to keep goin'. Learn to live with it. And no one can tell you how."

Castiel frowned. He sat back, eyes wherever. Considering Dean's words. After a long beat, "Say that again."

Dean looked back at Castiel, a bit surprised, but in a second he got it. "It's supposed to be this hard," he said.

Cas looked at Dean, eyes full of sympathy. He offered Dean his cappuccino. And Dean - who had managed to bring himself down with his helpful speech - was just blue enough to take it. He had a swig and was pleasantly surprised.

"Good stuff," Dean said. "Not 'ten bucks a pop' good, but hey." He passed the drink back. "So you had enough, or you wanna ride the merry-go-round?"

"I'd like to go home," Castiel said. He got up, doing a very admirable job of not looking wasted. But then he started walking who knows where and Dean had to start dragging him to the exit.

When they were practically out of the mall, Castiel spotted a new machine near the exit, where the photo booth used to be. It almost looked like a video game, but it had a keyboard and a touch screen. The cabinet was black and airbrushed in red flames and skulls. The Inferno logo was on the sides and the word "Crossroads" written in front over the screen.

"What is that?" Castiel asked, beginning to look more and more outraged as he walked toward it.

Dean didn't answer, he just followed. But when they were closer, it started to make sense. From the look of it, this machine spat out personalized, official crossroads contracts for $4.99 a piece. Castiel was breathing hard now, nostrils flared. Furious at the realization.

Those douchebags were tricking people into selling their souls in the mall.  _And charging them for it_.


	40. View Halloo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was bound to happen sooner or later....

HEATHCLIFF STUDIOS - EVENING

Filming had wrapped on the latest episode of Inferno, but not as usual. The audience cleared out of studio 1A as soon as the show was over - there would be no meet and greet with the hosts that night, nor did they warm up the crowd, as Crowley and Balthazar had become uncharacteristically stingy with their time that day. And normally, as the set was being cleared, the show's stars would be in makeup or wardrobe getting de-whored by various monsters and demons who worked behind the scenes. But as soon as the episode wrapped, Legion, the head of studio security, dragged them and their PAs into his office. One of those rooms where one wall was all monitors showing almost everything that went on inside the studio.

"If this is another one of your 'ghost cat' hunts," Crowley told Legion, "you're sacked. And I don't think we had the sack laundered after Phillips."

"It's the Crossroads Machines, boss," Legion said, cueing up a video file on his desktop. "Remember when I told you it would be a good idea to-."

"Enough drumroll," Balthazar snapped. "Just play it."

Legion looked thoroughly annoyed - the demons didn't like Balthazar on a good day, but stepping on one's ability to kiss up to the boss was unforgivable. Not that he could do anything about it. With a quiet snarl, he clicked play and one of the larger monitors started playing black and white security feed from the Crossroads Machine at the Imperial Mall.

Everyone watched as Castiel stepped into frame, scowling at the high-angled camera, saying something inaudible. He drunkenly pulled back the hand that was holding his cappuccino, like he was about to chuck it, and looked like he'd just unleashed the granddaddy of all swears. Legion paused the video, and practically everyone in the room, Crowley included, burst out laughing.  _Oh yes_ , they remembered Castiel.

So did Balthazar, who looked for a moment like he'd just got a call from the principal of his kid's school - he was that special blend of concerned, confused, embarrassed, and pissed off evoked by having your family get you into trouble.

Crowley's laughter petered out into a sigh. "Oh,  _cherries and feathers_. I'd almost forgotten about him."

"Him, who?" Shipley asked.

"You really are fresh off the truck," Crowley said. "That's Castiel, former Angel of Thursday. Currently Bobby Singer's common-law wife. I've been wondering what graceless angels do once their fighting days are behind them - apparently, it's having a nosh at Panera Bread."

That got another laugh from the room, but Legion had to get Crowley's attention. " _More,_  boss. More."

Crowley narrowed his eyes on Legion. "More  _funny_ , or more...  _more_?"

Legion clicked play again. Before Castiel could chuck his fancy coffee in defiance, Dean stepped into frame to talk him down and drag him away.

"Pause it," Crowley said quietly.

The hush that fell over the room let Shipley know this was a somebody. "Okay," he said, "so who's that guy?"

"It's Dean Winchester," Lydecker said, just a tad bit astonished.

Shipley smirked at that. He might as well have said it was the Easter Bunny. "What, as in ' _The_   _Winchesters_ '?" Everyone gave him a look. He was getting used to that.

"The Winchesters were real, dude," Lydecker whispered to him. "I  **told**  you."

"Yeah," Shipley said, "You also told me 'Panic' by the Smiths syncs flawlessly to the Thriller dance."

"I've got proof, watch-."

"What a minute," Shipley said, ignoring whatever Lydecker was about to do. "Angels can hear each other's bitching, right? Like NPR? Couldn't this Castiel guy use his to spy on us-."

"Oh, for the love of me," Balthazar said. "You have to be broadcasting for other angels to hear you and I'm not. Besides, he got rid of his years ago, he couldn't hear a word from any of us."

"How do you know that?" Legion asked suspiciously.

Balthazar let out a little nervous laugh. "Well, you know. Common knowledge, spread in Cosmo, that sort of thing. I mean, who  _doesn't_  know, am I right?"

Now everyone was giving the Shipley look to Balthazar.

"Fine, alright,  _I_  did it," he said. "Happy? Cas prayed for me to help put the voices in his head to rest. Relax, it's not like I gave him a panzer."

"You helped the angel Castiel?" Butcher asked. "And you didn't feel like sharing that information?"

Balthazar tried to ignore him, watching the monitor with a gloomy expression. Something about Dean didn't sit right with him."Oh, stop being ordinary. It was none of any of your business. Do I have to tell you everything?"

All eyes went to Crowley since the henchmen weren't sure what the answer to that question was, but bossman was still a little caught up in the security video. "Play it back again," he asked, a little too quietly. "They're like roaches. If you see one, there's bound to be more."

Dolly and Mog shared a look: More Winchesters? Score!

"You think Sam is back?" Balthazar asked.

"I really do," Crowley said wistfully. He turned to Balthazar with thoughtful-face, about to say ask something.

"No," Balthazar said.

"No,  _what_?" Crowley asked, slightly offended.

"No, we're not bringing them in on our deal."

Crowley did his best to look shocked and insulted. As if he would suggest such a thing. But then said,  _"They might say yes,"_  in a sing-song voice with a big smile, as though it was a tempting possibility.

"They might want to smite us for harvesting the souls of all humanity," Balthazar said, "so maybe we don't tell them our plans?"

Crowley sighed with totally real disappointment. "Fine, fine. Kill my fun, puncture my dreams. But if the Winchesters are back in play and we don't bring them over to our side, you can bet your tear-away pants they're coming after us."

Balthazar smiled a flirty, little smile at Crowley, who returned it. Something about the prospect of Sam and Dean Winchester declaring war on them was very diverting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: Try syncing Panic with the Thriller dance. It's magical.


End file.
